Merdeka Rising

by Rory Marron

  Wing Commander Ball was talking with an elderly nun and a young woman. He waved. ‘Ah, Meg! Glad you’re here. We were just talking about you. This is the Reverend Mother Beatrice and Doctor Richie.’

  The three women shook hands. ‘Actually,’ said the younger woman, it’s student doctor but please call me Gwen.’

  Meg detected an Australian accent. ‘How did you end up here?’

  ‘Oh, just lucky I suppose!’ Gwen joked. ‘I was on a training placement at a Surabaya hospital when the war caught me by surprise. The Japs sent me here soon after.’

  ‘Bad for you but lucky for the others,’ said Meg.

  Gwen shook her head. ‘I had a lot of help. I ran the clinic at the camp but fortunately I could ask the Reverend Mother for help with the really serious cases. She’s the real doctor!’

  ‘What nonsense!’ Sister Beatrice smiled. ‘Gwen is already a marvellous physician. What are a few examination papers after such a gruelling apprenticeship?’

  Gwen blushed shyly. ‘Thank you.’

  A few minutes later Meg, Gwen, Mac, Kate, Ball, Marja and Anna were taking a break in the walled convent garden enjoying glasses of the nuns’ home-made mango wine. They were surrounded by the sweet scent of red and orange bougainvillaea.

  ‘I could get used to this,’ said Ball holding up his glass. Meg nodded. Suddenly the war seemed very long ago. The only reminder of conflict was an ugly, eight-foot breach in the wall caused by a Japanese artillery shell. Yet the gap also provided a stunning view over the plain and lake below.

  It did not take long for the conversation to turn to thoughts of home. Gwen Ritchie turned to Ball. ‘Wing Commander, when can we go to Semarang? To be evacuated I mean?’

  He shifted uncomfortably. ‘Oh, in a few days I expect. We have to arrange for transport. There are thousands more internees than we were led to expect.’

  ‘Really?’ Gwen asked. ‘Surely the Dutch government knew about us. Where did they think we’d all gone?’

  Ball snorted. ‘I’d like to ask them that very question.’

  By dusk the sing-alongs were well under way. Bonfires lit Ambarawa camp. Improvised Dutch flags and bunting hung from the huts and windows. Gramophones or internee musicians and choirs provided the music as the Gurkhas danced with two or three women at a time. The festive mood was infectious and Kate and Juliette were also enjoying themselves, their own memories of the joy of liberation very fresh. They were breathless and almost dizzy as they took a rest from the dancing, enjoying the cooler night air of the hill country. Giggling, Kate reached for an enamel plate and began to fan Juliette who did the same to Kate.

  ‘It’s a pity there aren’t enough men to dance with,’ laughed Kate.

  ‘But the Gurkhas aren’t worried’, Juliette said pointing. ‘Look at them! We were lucky so many came to Tjandi.’ She paused and Kate saw her glancing at the gate where Nagumo was talking with two Japanese guards. He was glancing frequently and enviously at the festivities. Then he saw them, nodded politely to Juliette and walked away.

  ‘There’s a spare man!’ Juliette whispered challengingly.

  Kate stared open-mouthed. ‘Juliette, you wouldn’t dare! I don’t know how you can stand the sight of him after what happened.’ Kate heard her own hypocrisy and cringed.

  ‘Ah, chérie’, Juliette squeezed her hand. ‘But he helped save us from those murderers. You can’t choose your knight in shining armour. You of all people should know that…’

  Kate blushed but Juliette merely smiled at her. ‘Monsieur Nagumo is just a man, and not a bad man. And he made me laugh! Can you imagine that? When we did not understand a word each other said! I know it sounds terrible but each time he visited me he brought a little present.’

  Kate did not reply. She had no memento of Ota.

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter now’, Juliette laughed. ‘It’s over! Come on, let’s get dancing!’

  Meg was looking for Mac. Eventually she saw him dancing with a giggling, clinging girl with orange ribbons in her hair. Meg started to wave then noticed half-a-dozen other girls standing excitedly nearby waiting for a turn. She hesitated, and then let her hand drop. Let them have some fun, she thought. God knows, they deserve it! Mac too. She half-turned and was edging away when he was at her side. He was short of breath but smiling. ‘May I have the pleasure?’

  She took his hand quickly. ‘Oh, how the other women will hate me!’

  At first he held her away from him but the crush from the dozens of couples jostled them closer. A slow number started, bringing cheers. Meg moved quickly against him, resting her head on his shoulder. His arms closed around her and she closed her eyes. ‘I think I’m getting tired of war, Mac,’ she whispered.

  ‘Join the club,’ he replied softly.

  His hand touched her hair and she hugged him. ‘You’ll be home soon.’ Mac did not reply and she held him, enjoying his warm breath on her neck.

  Around them the party continued raucously but now she watched without real interest. The ever-cheerful Gurkhas were in great demand as dance partners…and more. One after another couples were breaking away from the tumult and heading for the dark anonymity of the huts. She smiled when she saw Rai and a Dutch girl hurry away hand in hand.

  Mac’s fingers stroked her neck. Slowly she lifted her head to see him staring after Rai. He glanced down and they shared a nervous, excited smile. Mac stopped dancing and led her through the throng towards the maize field.

  Borobudur

  Massive and dark, the bell-shaped mound rose out of the pale greens of the sawah and palms, wrapped in broken spirals of early morning mist. Meg, Mac, Ball and Miller approached in silence, awed by the looming, balanced outlines of the ten concentric stone terraces.

  Meg felt her chest tighten. White, cobweb-like strands hung in the moist air. She tried to breathe slowly so as not to disturb them. On the temple walls, half-hidden in shadow were intricate, life-size bas-relief carvings of animals and men.

  Ball had taken the lead and he stopped at the base of a narrow staircase. ‘I was told it’s best to watch the sunrise from the top then climb again to see the reliefs in the light,’ he whispered, almost apologetically.

  Equally reluctant to break the silence, they nodded and began the steep, dark ascent to the tenth and smallest terrace. They emerged to find themselves almost hemmed in by a ring of bulbous, grey-stone forms. To the east, beyond the ridge tops bordering the Kedu Plain, the sky glimmered in a soft gold and warm orange-red as the first rays of sunlight reflected off wispy clouds. Around the temple base, clusters of palm tops and a patchwork of glinting sawah were emerging through the fast-dissipating mist.

  On the terrace, the stone forms were gradually revealed as bell-shaped, ten-feet-high stupas, replicating the shape of the temple. As the tops of the stupas caught the first of the sunbeams the weathered stone appeared to glow, shaking off shadow as though welcoming the still gentle heat.

  Meg could not remember a more exhilarating dawn. She took a photograph but knew her camera could not possibly do justice to the beauty before her. Surreptitiously she slipped her hand into Mac’s and gazed as the sunlight flashed around them. All too soon the fleeting tapestry melded into the bright disc of the rising sun in a blue sky.

  She squeezed Mac’s hand. ‘Wonderful!’

  ‘I had no idea’, he whispered, shaking his head. ‘Thanks for dragging me along.’

  Now that the temple top was revealed, they began to explore. Beams of light were piercing the diamond-latticed openings of the stupas, illuminating the faces of meditating Buddha figures inside. Meg went from one to another.

  ‘Mac, it’s good luck to touch the hands and feet!’ Meg chuckled.

  Tentatively he reached inside one of the stupas. ‘I hope I don’t shake hands with a scorpion!’

  One Buddha was uncovered and sat open to the elements. Meg looked at the serene, eroding face with its heavily lidded eyes and the hint of an indulgent smile. She felt warmed inside and smiled back. ‘I g
et the feeling this guy would forgive me anything!’

  Mac patted the clasped, weathered hands. ‘He’s a thousand years old. I’m sure he’s a good listener.’

  After a while Meg again felt the need for solitude and was relieved when Mac said he would stay at the top for a bit longer. ‘See you later then,’ she said quickly and left him. Looking back at him she saw a calmer man. She was glad, too, that they had shared such a memorable dawn.

  Miller was by the staircase, sweeping the plain below with his binoculars, half-sightseer, half-soldier.

  ‘Thank you, Major,’ she said softly, not wanting to break the peaceful, contemplative mood that still held them.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t need prompting to come here,’ Miller said in slightly hushed tones. ‘I read about this place at school. Marvellous isn’t it!’

  ‘For sure,’ replied Meg.

  Miller jiggled his binoculars. ‘It’s good to be able to reconnoitre an area and catch up on a bit of history at the same time!’

  Meg nodded. ‘Actually, I’m embarrassed to admit that I hadn’t known about the temple until I read about it in my guidebook. I’m going down now to have a look at the reliefs.’

  ‘Fine, we’ll all meet at the bottom terrace staircase in half-an hour or so. My men are guarding the perimeter but please don’t wander off.’

  Meg nodded and started down, looking forward to being alone. Borobudur fascinated her and she wanted to make the most of it. She started at the east gate in order to walk the narrow corridors clockwise as a pilgrim would and observe the ten levels of the Mahayana-Buddhist universe. Depictions of mythical beasts, heroes, elephants and sailing ships were interspersed with scenes from daily life. Some were remarkably contemporary: farmers ploughing with buffaloes, bountiful rice fields and smoking volcanoes. Most of all, she liked the scenes of earthly pleasures: feasts with musicians, provocatively posed dancing girls, libidinous princes and graphically entwined lovers. After the pleasures came the punishments: scenes of hellfire, demons and torments for the guilty, watched over by sombre monks.

  Finally she was back, alone, on the tenth terrace with the stupas. According to her guidebook, this was the level of enlightenment, with no earthly distractions for the closeted Buddha figures. Once again she was drawn to the single, uncovered statue. In the full morning light the Buddha looked serene. She took a photograph, hoping to capture his smile. On an impulse she reached for his now warmed hands and briefly closed her eyes.

  On her way back down to rejoin Miller and the others she tried to imagine how the terraces must have looked when Stamford Raffles stumbled upon the jungle-covered ruins in 1815. Borobudur had by then been lost for several centuries. Idly she wondered how much longer it would stand. Signs of subsidence, erosion and damp were all around her. In truth, the temple was crumbling. The thought that tropical winds and rains would erase the Buddha’s smile and that someday the statue would topple saddened her slightly. Another paradise to lose….

  Meg quickened her pace. The Gurkhas were already back at the vehicles. She was glad they had respected the temple. It was not a place for guns.

  As they drove away off she craned her neck for a last glimpse of the temple mound but all she could see was the half-track and Rai training his Tommy gun at the tree-line. Under his bush-hat his eyes were never still. The gun had a drum magazine. In silhouette he reminded her of a 1920s Chicago gangster. Quickly she turned away.

  It was hot and sticky in the car and she reached for her canteen only to remember it was almost empty. Ball, next to her, offered her his instead. ‘The sunsets up there must be quite something, too,’ he said enthusiastically.

  Meg did not answer. The image of Rai and the gun had spoilt her mood.

  ‘Next time, Wing Commander,’ Miller said, ‘we daren’t risk the roads at night.’

  Meg was curious. ‘But I thought the bandits had gone?’

  Miller shrugged. ‘So did I, but we found signs of movements of large numbers of men.’

  ‘Where are they heading for?’ Ball asked quietly.

  ‘Probably for Yogya or Surabaya,’ replied Miller.

  Meg sat forward. ‘Yogya? That’s where one of the sultans has his palace! I’d like to meet a sultan…’

  Miller shook his head. ‘Somehow I don’t think we’d be welcome there. You might be safe, Miss Graham, being an American and a reporter but not us.’

  Ball was pensive. ‘Well, I hope it is Yogya. I’m flying to Surabaya the day after tomorrow. I don’t need the bother of bandits!’

  ‘The day after tomorrow is another day,’ Miller joked, head-down, studying a map. ‘A few miles on there’s a temple ruin with a natural spring. We’ll stop there for fresh water.’

  At their second stop they walked about a quarter-of-a-mile along a narrow but well-trodden jungle path with Gurkhas front and rear. As a precaution, Miller had sent Rai ahead.

  They came upon two stone pillars, once the base of an ancient arch, entwined in thick creepers. Beyond, Meg glimpsed a rectangular-shaped pool. It was the first of five, linked by a stone rill fed from a larger pool at the base of a broad expanse of rock. Hewn from the rock face was a life-size alto-relief of a half-naked, full-breasted woman. The figure leant forward, palms together as if in greeting. Two narrow jets of spring water arced from holes in her nipples filling the pool. Rai was squatting below the statue, holding the mouth of his canteen under one of the arcs.

  ‘Good Lord!’ Miller said with a grin.

  ‘Heavens!’ Ball stammered.

  Rai turned and grinned, saying something to Miller in Urdu. The other Gurkhas started giggling. Miller chose not to interpret.

  Meg stared appreciatively. ‘We don’t have fountains like that in New York!’

  ‘It would cause a bit of a stir on Oxford Street, too,’ Ball added dryly.

  ‘She must be a goddess…’ Miller said smiling.

  ‘Of water perhaps,’ Ball ventured with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘Or motherhood…’ Mac said trying to keep his face straight.

  ‘Well, her cups runneth over…’ quipped Meg, sending the two men into convulsions.

  Miller’s shoulders shook. ‘Whichever you prefer, Wing Commander. Either way, it’s a nice spot for a picnic isn’t it Miss Graham?’

  ‘It certainly is, Major,’ Meg agreed. ‘But first I’m going to soak my aching feet.’

  While they ate, Meg sat next to Rai. Like everyone else his eyes were inexorably drawn to the goddess.

  Meg laughed with him. ‘Does she remind you of the women in Nepal, Naik Rai?’

  Miller moved closer to interpret. Rai looked wistful as he answered. The other Gurkhas and Miller roared. ‘Not those in his village,’ he explained. ‘They have a saying, “Breasts are bigger further down the mountain”… It makes sense, there’s a better diet in the lower valleys.’

  ‘Are you married, Rai?’ she asked quickly. Then she remembered she had seen him with a girl the night before. She hoped he was not embarrassed.

  ‘No, Memsahib,’ Rai said with a smile. ‘When go home, marry.’

  ‘Oh, you’re engaged? What’s her name?’

  Rai’s answer was convoluted.

  ‘He likes a girl in the village next to his,’ began Miller. ‘Her name is Sarita. He plans to win her in the traditional way. One day he will wait for her when she takes her washing to the river, then he’ll challenge her to a singing competition. If he wins the girl has to marry him. Of course she has to agree to the challenge first, and she can choose the song. He’s learnt her favourite ballad by heart. Every night he recites the words so he doesn’t forget them.’

  ‘You must be a good singer then, Rai!’ suggested Mac.

  Rai shook his head and grinned. ‘Terrible bad!’

  Around her the others giggled. Meg was intrigued. ‘What about Sarita’s voice?’

  Rai replied a little sheepishly.

  ‘Like a warbler in spring,’ said Miller.

  The Gurkhas started joking among themselv
es, clearly at Rai’s expense.

  ‘Then how will you win?’ Mac asked.

  Rai spoke animatedly to Miller, who smiled. ‘The same way his father won his mother and his brother won his bride. He’ll bribe the judge! It’s always the best friend of the girl. The day before he will slip her some rupees. He says Sarita is very beautiful, so her friend can demand a lot of money!’

  Meg clapped her hands together. ‘Wow! I see a girl’s got to know who her friends are in Nepal! I can think of a few of mine who’d see me married for the price of a whiskey and soda!’

  Miller interpreted. The Gurkhas thought it hilarious and could not stop laughing.

  Meg looked about her, beginning to understand why Miller was so proud of these tough, respectful men. She had rarely seen anyone laugh or argue as easily as a group of Gurkhas. Somehow she found it hard to picture them as the ferocious fighters she knew they were. But the sturdy, curved kukri knives were always within reach. Meg hoped she would never see one drawn in anger.

  In the afternoon, Miller and most of the Gurkhas left for Magelang, a town about twenty-five miles from Ambarawa. Mac and Ball went with them with the intention of returning the next day to fly to Surabaya. Magelang boasted a large military hospital and Ball was keen to see it restocked with medicines.

  Meg stayed in Ambarawa to interview more of the women. In truth, she did not want to face a third ‘liberation’ party or the same, tired questions about Holland and Hollywood stars. Meg strolled about the camp. All everyone wanted to do was leave. They kept asking her when they could go. Few would talk of the struggle for survival, and most were already trying to forget.

  For Meg the brief excursion to Borobudur had been a refreshing change. She had realised she was bored with the ‘women’s angle’ on Java, however distressing life still was for the internees. She was being selfish, she knew, but also she wanted some time away from Mac. That morning she had decided that after her trip to Surabaya she would head for the sultan’s palace in Yogya then return to Singapore. She wanted time to prepare her goodbye.