Beyond Paradise
The poem “When I Was One-and-Twenty” by A. E. Houseman is reprinted from The Collected Poems of A. E. Houseman, copyright 1922, 1939, 1940; © 1965 by Henry Holt and Company, Inc.; copyright 1936, 1950 by Barclays Bank Ltd; © 1967, 1968 by Robert E. Symons.
Beyond Paradise
Published by Jane Hertenstein at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 by Jane Hertenstein
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To Mom—you see, I told you I would.
Beyond Paradise
Chapter 1
Beyond Cleveland, Beyond Columbus
Boom!
The sudden sound penetrated my deep, silent sleep. As if by reflex, my body shook and then relaxed into the pillows and clean white bedsheets.
“Daisy,” said a woman’s voice nearby, “please close the door quietly.”
“Okay, Mama. Did she wake up yet?”
“Do you mean Louise, honey? Yes, she’s awake, but she’s still a little groggy from her sickness.”
The muffled echo of bare feet pulled me further from my stupor. I opened my eyes to peer through a veil of mosquito netting; everything seemed pale and dreamlike. “Where am I?” I asked.
A woman’s kind face bent over me and folded back the netting. “You’re at the Baptist missionary compound. You arrived here a few days ago with your parents, but you were so sick with fever that you had to be carried from the ferry. You must be feeling better now, I see.”
I nodded, remembering vaguely the ferryboat trip from Manila to the outer islands of the Philippines. My head had pounded as the weighted motors down below in the ferry snorted like an old man sleeping, blowing air out through his green rudder teeth. Salty seawater misted and sprayed the deck. I clung to the railing, looking out over the Visayan Sea, which was dotted with islands too numerous for names. My brain seemed to be made of cobwebs as I tried to remember what had happened.
I had come from Ohio with my mother and father to the Philippines. Papa had taken a position to head up a missionary school on the island of Panay. I looked around the sunny bedroom where I now lay. Someone was missing. “Julie?” I called out.
“No, my name is Ann. Ann Fletcher—your new neighbor at the compound.” Ann spoke with a strong Southern accent. “Your mother is downstairs resting, and your father went with Frank, my husband, to the dock to retrieve your trunks.”
I tried to lift myself out of the bed, but collapsed backwards onto the pillows. The fever had left my body achy and my muscles sore. Nausea swept over me as if I were still on the ferry, rolling. I remembered the trip out to Manila on the steamship from San Francisco. At the docks in San Francisco I had waved good-bye to my sister, Julie. She was staying back for one more year to finish high school before joining us in the Philippines. The fog had been thick that October day as we pulled out of the bay. Straining my eyes, I looked into the crowd for one last glimpse of her face.
We had docked for a day in Hawaii, where I met some native fishermen beside a strange boat—a slim, narrow sailboat with a bar on the side to balance it. They had talked and laughed, and when they saw me, a man with almost-black skin reached inside the outrigger and pulled out a conch shell. Its pink pearly petals opened up to me like a flower. He motioned to me to hold it up to my ear, laughing at my surprise. I could hear the sea, swishing and roaring inside the shell.
Once again a wave of nausea came over me. I shook my head to ease the sounds, forcing myself to sit up in the bed.
“I must have fallen ill on the ferryboat trip from Manila,” I said. “I remember watching at the railing as the water turned from a pretty crystal blue to a seasick green. Is it malaria? I read about malaria before coming out. More Yanks were killed from malaria during the Spanish-American War than from the actual fighting.”
Ann fluffed up the pillows stacked behind my head. “No, I don’t think it is malaria, just a bad stomach flu that put you out for a few days. You’ll be up in no time.”
Boom! The door banged shut a second time. A very small girl rushed into the room. Her curly hair made her look identical to the other girl staring up at me beside my bed. With big-sister attention the older child said, “Looky, the girl woke up.”
“Yes, sweet peas. Louise did wake up, but she needs her rest.”
The bigger child approached my bedside. “I’m Daisy. I’m five years old, and this is my little sister, Mae. She’s two and a half. Mama says we are her sweet peas, and Mrs. Urs calls us little schnitzels. What’s a schnitzel?”
I laughed. “I’m not sure, though I think you girls are very, very cute. I know we will be the greatest of friends.”
“Now shoo, little peas.” Ann turned to me and took my hand. “I’m sure we’ll also be the best of friends. I’ll check in on you in a bit.”
All three left the room with yet another bang. I was fully awake and alert to the fact that I was in a new place. Nothing about this room reminded me of home. Sunshine flooded in through the open window shades. In the air was the smell of salt water and citrus fruits. The faint rustling of wings caught my attention. Tucked into a sunny corner of the bedroom was an orange-and-bright-green parakeet perched within a golden cage.
“Now,” I said to myself, “I know I’m not in Upper Sandusky, Ohio. Have I died and gone to heaven?”
I crawled out of bed and lifted the little bar on the cage. The bird jumped to my outstretched finger and tilted his head to the side. Immediately he let out a twitter. I sat back on my heels in the bed, amazed at how far I had come.
“How would you like to go to paradise?” Papa asked with a twinkle in his eye. Paradise. It all began last spring when Judson Smith, a missionary home on furlough, came to see Papa at the church. Papa pastured the First Baptist Church of Upper Sandusky, Ohio. A dull gray church with solemn rules against card playing and dancing and, in general, having fun.
Judson Smith shared the pulpit with Papa Easter Sunday, April 1941. I remembered the day as being oppressively beautiful. It seemed a sin to be stuck inside a church building in springtime, singing the words to an old hymn: “This is my Father’s world, / The birds their carols raise, / The morning light, the Lilly white, / Declare their Maker’s praise.” I strained my eyes to look through the brightly sunlit stained-glass windows.
“Thank you, Reverend Keller, for allowing me to join you this day. I always enjoy visiting old friends.” With his thin hair combed from the back of his head toward the front to cover a huge bald spot, Judson Smith looked older than Papa. Mr. Smith and Papa had gone to seminary together years ago.
“ ‘Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel.’ ” said Rev. Smith. “Yea, even to the ends of the earth. To mountaintops, to the valleys below, yes, even to the wildest jungles. Friends, let us not be fainthearted and shrink back, but let us persevere and endure. I exhort you to support our missionaries in the city of Iloilo on the island of Panay in the Philippines.”
A cloud passed in front of the stained glass. The pane depicting the Crucifixtion darkened, and Mary’s face took on a deeper shade of concern. I looked over at Mother. She stared straight ahead, her back rigid against the pew. Mother’s face was beautiful, but in a fragile sort of way. Her lips spread thin, motionless in the shifting light. Julie, my older sister by three years, sat on the other side of Mother. Julie reminded me of the cartoon illustration of Snow White with her black hair shaped around a perfectly sweet face. Her red lips were tied into a bow, smiling, laughing, singing. Baptists were not allowed to go to the movie house; nevertheless, I often heard Julie humming “Someday My Prince Will Come.”
“Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel.” I could not imagine Julie or Mother going to the ends of the earth; I could not even imagine them leaving Upper Sandusky. I, on the other hand, had flowing through my veins an urgency to run away, to fall off the face of the earth. But in all my fourteen years I had never been anywhere. I dreamed of dreaming in other languages, of waking up in other sunlight, of being someone else other than who I was, Jean Louise Keller.
After church that afternoon, around the dinner table, Rev. Smith bored us with stories about the Philippines. Of course, Julie and I were not allowed to leave the table while our guest lounged. We were obligated to sit and listen to him prattle on and on.
My bones ached and my mind wandered until I heard him talk about the Moro headhunters and how they cannibalized their victims. “Have you ever seen them?” I asked, interrupting his story.
“Well, I have met a few Moros in my day walking the trails, but they were civilized ones. Not the heathens who occupy the mountainous jungles. No,” he said, “it takes much perseverance to teach these poor primitive people the way of the gospel . . . .” On and on he talked. I envisioned Rev. Judson Smith’s bald head sticking out of the top of a big, boiling pot, the long strand of hair covering his bald patch floating in the cauldron, his mouth opening and closing, talking endlessly about the stupidity of the “primitive people.”
I laughed out loud. Everyone turned to look at me. Embarrassed, I said, “Continue, Reverend Smith. Tell us more.”
“Arlen, you and Kate should consider the mission field. There is a great need for men of your caliber over there. The Baptist Church is looking for qualified pastors such as yourself to help teach in the less remote areas. Some of the islands have no Protestant clergy. The Catholics have their own services, but, of course, not everyone is a Catholic. Have you ever given thought to foreign service?”
A worried look crossed Mother’s face. Mother could never be separated from Father. Mother had met Papa, fresh out of seminary, at a church ice-cream social. Papa said it was love at first sight, which always made Mother blush; her eyes, bright like points of light, never left Papa’s face as she absorbed every word.
Papa chuckled. “No, I don’t think that life is for me. I like adventure, but would never consider leaving my family behind for the Philippines.” He held Mother’s hand.
“Bring them with you, of course. Many families go over. There are ten of us in the compound in Iloilo City. We are considering starting up a Christian school for the native children. A wonderful opportunity for someone of your academic nature.”
And that’s how it all started. A couple months later, Papa asked me, “How would you like to go to paradise?”
After the news of our intended departure was announced, I became a real heroine at school. Sarah Jane Addams, the most popular girl, who had snubbed me all my grade school life, suddenly wanted to be pen pals with me. I think she merely wanted to add Philippine stamps to her collection.
I tried to explain Panay to Tyler, a neighborhood boy about one year younger than me, and much more gullible. Tyler’s hair was so white and thin that I could see the blue veins in his skull pop out. We used to take long walks by the railroad tracks, watching the double-decker trains roll by. Men and women, mannequin-like, stared out the window at us and our little town. They were traveling, perhaps, to Cleveland or Columbus.
“We are moving away beyond Cleveland, beyond Columbus,” I said, “across the ocean to an island in the Pacific. I guess I got my wish to leave Upper.”
“My auntie left Upper,” said Tyler. “She moved to New York City and works in a skyscraper downtown. She says that if you drop a penny off the Empire State Building it will crush a car.”
I ignored him. “It’s hard to believe I’ll be leaving in a little over a month. I’ve always wanted to run ten thousand miles and go in a hundred different directions. It’s been my dream to travel, and now”—I scuffed the ground beside the railroad tracks with my foot—“it seems scary to go so far away.”
Tyler wasn’t paying any attention. “So I asked her, What if you dropped a nickel—”
I gave Tyler a knock on his transparent head. “At first I was mad that Julie got to stay. It’s unfair that grown-ups always expect us kids to act responsible, and then when I volunteered to stay back with Julie, Mother said I was too young.” I sighed, wondering about adult illogic. “But now I’m excited to be going, to get out of here. I can’t stand the other kids at school. Why, the other day Sarah Jane Addams made a joke about my pop being a pastor. She asked if he wore holy underwear.”
Tyler cast a sidelong glance at my backside. Again I had to give him a shove to keep him on track. “Of course, I’ll miss Julie, but after she graduates next year she’ll come out to meet us in the Philippines. Hey Tyler, do you realize that it is already tomorrow across the international dateline?”
“If it’s tomorrow there, then what is today—yesterday?”
“They’re twelve hours ahead of us. If we’re going to bed in Ohio, they’re just waking up in Panay to a new day.”
“Then do they know who won the Indians-White Sox game?”
I shook my head in disbelief and jumped down off the railroad tracks. Starting off across the baseball diamond behind the high school, I turned around and yelled at Tyler, “When I’m in the jungles of Panay, I’m going to run around buck naked just like the ladies in National Geographic.” Even at a distance I saw his blue veins bulging.
I rose up out of the bed to return the bird to his perch. Looking out the window and across the lawn, I saw groves of fruit trees fade into forests of palms and oversize frond trees. I was reminded of the verse from Revelation that Papa read to mother and me on our last night aboard the steamship; the Bible had spoken of a new city. I whispered aloud, “A new heaven and a new earth.”
Chapter 2
A New Heaven, a New Earth
At the mission compound I was soon up and around. It took awhile to adjust to the intense heat and humidity. It was November, and my short-sleeved cotton dress felt hot and suffocating. My head was still swimming from all the new faces and names. There were thirteen of us missionaries at the compound, along with a small group of Filipinos hired to do the chores. A regular bowl of mixed nuts. The Fletchers and their two girls hailed from Mississippi; the Albrights, another couple, also came from the United States; and a Swiss family, flora and Johannes Urs, lived on the other side of our cottage. Alice Gundry had her own place. She had come out from Australia about twenty years ago and stayed. Pastor Judson Smith sort of ran the mission. I was the only teenager at the compound except for the Urses’ fifteen-year-old son, Freddy, who was away at boarding school in Manila and due to come home during the December holiday break.
Papa was scheduled to go to Manila in about a week to pick up Freddy and the missionary schoolteacher. Her boat was expected December sixth. All three, plus numerous supplies, would return via inter-island ferry.
After getting moved into our own cottage, mother and I were invited to a luncheon—a welcoming party at Mrs. Albright’s cottage. Ann Fletcher, Mrs. Albright, Mrs. Urs, and Alice Gundry were all waiting in a small sitting room to greet mother and me.
Before going in, I saw a flash of hesitancy cross mother’s face. Being around so many new faces, new acquaintances, especially without Papa, made Mother shy. She seemed so frail, pale, and all alone. I couldn’t imagine why she had agreed to come to the Philippines. On her own she would still be at home making a pudding for supper, lining up the wet laundry on the clothesline, stopping for a moment to straighten the tablecloth in the dining room. She had come because of Papa. I squeezed Mother’s hand to let her know I was nearby. She hardly seemed to recognize my effort.
After the initial greetings and introductions, the conversation shifted to the new school Papa was to administrate. “We are all very keen about getting the school up and running,” said Ann Fletcher. “It will be good to know that our own children will be receiving a Christian education without having to send them off to boarding schools.”
“Yah, I want my Freddy closer to home,” Mrs. Urs said. “Too many bad things happening everywhere. Hitler is taking over the world.”
I had been hearing a lot about Hitler on the radio. Adolf Hitler was like a hungry locust chewing on a leaf. He had gobbled up Czechoslovakia, Poland, Belgium, Holland, Denmark, Norway, and France. On and on the hungry locusts ate.
Back in Ohio, Papa had said that what happened in Europe didn’t have anything to do with the United States. Many of the people living in Upper were of German descent. Mr. Staub ran the drugstore and soda fountain. All the negative talk about Germans worried him.
I had asked Papa about the war and Hitler. “Are we going to have to go over and fight the Germans, Papa?”
“People are saying a lot of ugly things right now. Many people want to fight. I’m not saying Hitler is right; I don’t believe we should go over there and solve Europe’s problems.”
“Winston Churchill wants the United States to come fight. If we do fight, what will happen to Mr. Staub? Will he have to go back to Germany?”
Papa had answered, “Who is American? Staub, Gottlieb, McSweeney, Keller, and Sullivan. It’s like saying green, blue, and black belong to us, and you are red and yellow and brown. No. We are all together and all mixed up.”
I thought about this now as the women’s conversation continued. I felt safe tucked away in the Philippines, in paradise. Here in the Pacific, Europe was even farther away from us than it had been when we lived in Ohio.
“I don’t like how the Japs are stirring things up in Chiner,” Alice Gundry said. I had noticed right away that she spoke her mind.
We moved to the dining room, where three Filipino houseboys wearing white gloves and white uniforms served us a delicious dinner of rice, meat covered in curry sauce, grated coconut, and fried shrimp. On a lazy Susan sat smaller dishes of salted nuts, cheeses, and mango chutney sauce. There was also a salad of pears, dates, and figs—all imported onto the island. Later, under the whirling fans, we ate white cake and vanilla ice cream.
My stomach felt swollen and shaky. I wasn’t accustomed to such rich food, especially after just getting over the stomach flu. I asked to be excused and started back to our cottage. Outside, on the gravel path, I met Arturo, the Filipino gardener, who was raking the lawn. His old body shaped itself around the handle of the rake. “Hello, miss.” With only two teeth in his entire mouth, he looked up at me, smiling. I awkwardly smiled back.
“Hello. You speak very good English, Arturo.”
“Yes, miss. Speak very good English. As a boy I grow up in Intramuros—the oldest part of Manila. My family had a house in the plaza.” Arturo rested on his rake, his eyes distant, remembering his English, remembering an old story.
“Some of the nuns I didn’t like. I, of course, learn Spanish, but one sister, she teaches me the catechism in English. When the American soldiers come, there is fighting in the countryside. The soldiers stay at the convent, and part of it is used for a hospital. I run errands for the nurses. One soldier knew I spoke English. He gave to me a book.”
“What was that book?” I asked, attempting to take his rake.
“No, no. I do,” he said, pushing me aside.
“Arturo, let me do it. Let me help.”
He looked at me, perplexed.
“What was the book the soldier gave you to read?”
“Huckleberry Finn. A boy and a black man sail together on a wide river. I liked the story. That soldier good to me. I found him the best fruit in the market and shined his boots. When he left to go back to the States, he send to me a postcard.”
“I’ve brought over a few books. You may borrow them if you like. Mostly poetry books. Do you like poetry, Arturo?”
“Oh, yes, I have read the poetry of José Rizal. He wrote many beautiful poems and loved this country very much. José Rizal was more than a poet”—Arturo’s eyes glistened—“he was a hero. In the United States you celebrate George Washington—he is the father of your country, right? In the Philippines José Rizal is the father of our country. He paid a great price for leading our country to freedom. He rose up against the Spanish. And so we celebrate this great man on December 30 by reading his poems.”
I thought nothing could be more fantastic than to have a poet as a national hero, a man of words who was also a man of action and passion. Back home in Ohio I was constantly writing poetry. It was as if my mind could not think in straight lines, but in rhyme and verse. My teachers had tried to put a stop to it.
Once Papa came home from a parent-teacher chat, holding a stack of papers in his hand. “Poet”—for that’s what Papa called me, his little poet—“Poet, your teachers say you are distracted, a daydreamer in class.”
I hated school. I hated how everything had a time and place attached to it. This is algebra, this is history, this is penmanship. Watch your p’s and q’s, dot your i’s and cross your t’s. I was a poet.
Papa understood. He had handed me a notebook of lined paper. “Louise, here is a book for you to write in. Maybe you shouldn’t write these things in class, but please, write them anytime you want at home. What you have is important,” Papa said, waving the papers. “Don’t stop. At school concentrate on the schoolwork. At home write all the poetry your heart and head can create.”
When I reached the front porch of our cottage, a thin mist began to fall. The coolness on my skin refreshed me, helping me feel better after such a heavy luncheon. I looked over the groomed lawn to the canopy of looming trees. In the distance I saw the sugar factories and then beyond them the fields of sugarcane. Far off I observed the blurred outline of mountains that split the island of Panay in half. Panay was ancient, formed by volcanoes erupting and melting away.
In the acacia trees I heard a rustling sound—probably some tropical bird stirring up the leaves. I walked over to the edge of the grove and waded into the thickness quietly, trying to not frighten the birds. Sparse droplets of water ran down my face and arms. All at once I heard the soft melodic voice of Melinda, our Filipino lavandera, or laundress. I pulled back the branches of a low-lying bush. Melinda was in the arms of her boyfriend, a worker from the cane fields. They were whispering and giggling to each other, trading kisses back and forth.