by Derek Hansen
The captain was delighted with this answer. But he was not yet finished with Jan.
‘Do you not know that for two centuries Bugis pirates plundered the boats of the Dutch East Indies?’
‘Yes. And the boats of the English,’ Jan replied. ‘You frightened the English so much, your name has now become part of their language. They call you the bogey men. They tell their children to behave or the bogey men will come and get them.’
The captain laughed uproariously. He liked this confident young Dutchman. All but ‘One-Eye’ followed his lead. He just scowled. His malevolent gaze never left Jan.
‘Perhaps the English are wiser than the Dutch?’ suggested the captain.
‘Perhaps the Dutch are braver than the English,’ countered Jan.
Again the Bugis men laughed. But now it was time for the captain to be serious.
‘Yes, we can take you to Java. But if we agree to take you to Java, what makes you think you will be welcome there?’
‘I was born there,’ said Jan. ‘My family have a tea plantation on the slopes of Tangkuban Perahu, near Bandung. I grew up there until the age of nine. I have many friends in the kampungs. They will not have forgotten me. I ran with the children of the village who were my age. We stole mangoes together. And mangosteens, pineapples and snake fruit. We took the eggs from kampung chickens and boiled them in the hot pools of Tangkuban Perahu. I have sat with them at the feet of the elders and learned their customs and history. Like the village children I was raised practising rukun, gotong royong and sopan-santun—harmony, mutual help and manners. My skin is white. Everyone can see that. But my heart belongs in Java, among the Sundanese people.’
Jan could see that the captain was moved.
‘Times change,’ he said sadly. ‘First the Dutch destroyed our empire and scattered our people. Now it is your turn to feel the sting of new masters. Things are no longer as they were. Your friends may now be your enemies. You may not be welcome in your own home. They will take your land from you. That is the way it is now.’
‘My father was a good man,’ said Jan. ‘He was a fair man. This gives me cause for hope. Also, he was not deaf. When the drums of nationalism began to beat he was first to hear them. He did something quite extraordinary. Something you will understand and appreciate. He could see the time coming when the Dutch would be forced to leave the East Indies, and he thought the war in Europe might be the catalyst. He knew that he and the other colonisers would lose everything they owned. He loved Java, and the tea plantation was his life. He started thinking of ways that he could make sure he had something to return to after the war.
‘He called the elders from all the villages around his estate to a meeting. He suggested they form a cooperative and that the cooperative become his junior partner. He explained how each village would share in the rewards of their labour according to their contribution. He gave them thirty percent, and a good idea of what they could expect to receive in a good year. The elders went away and in their mosques gave thanks to Allah for this good man.’
The Buginese men nodded. They understood the generosity of this for they too were part of a cooperative. The owners of their boat lived in their home port of Ujung Pandang in South Sulawesi, which the Dutch had known as Makassar. They took eighty percent of the profits. The remainder was divided up among the crew according to contribution and seniority.
‘Of course the Europeans could not understand what he had done and despised him for it. But he would not change his mind. He had a deed drawn up in Jakarta, and gave it to the cooperative.
‘So you see. The people who work on the plantation are joint owners with us. There is a good chance that we will keep our lands. The government may steal from the Dutch but surely they will not steal from their own people?’
The captain considered Jan’s words.
‘He was a good man, your father. It is a pity he is not with you.’
‘My father was killed by the Japanese. His grave is somewhere here in Singapore. Before I can go to Java I must try to find it. My mother and I were in Holland on holiday when the war broke out. My father stayed on to produce rubber for the war effort. He fled to Singapore after Pearl Harbor. All we have are his letters.’
‘I hope you find your father’s grave. Perhaps we can take you to Jakarta. But as you can see, we are poor people and we cannot take you for nothing.’
‘I am willing to pay,’ said Jan, elated that the negotiations had begun. He could feel the excitement mounting within him. Soon he would be on his way. Even better, soon he would be able to stand and stretch his aching thighs and calf muscles. But business first. ‘The question is, how much money do you ask?’
‘Three thousand rupiah,’ said the captain after what appeared to be considerable thought.
‘Captain, you misunderstand me. I do not wish to buy your boat.’
The crew laughed. The captain nodded graciously.
‘Fortunately we like you. That is what we would normally charge. But you are a friend. You will have to work as one of the crew, you understand. Fifteen hundred.’
‘I would be honoured to work as one of your crew on your fine boat,’ Jan countered. ‘Five hundred.’
‘Alas, there are not enough hours in the day for you to work to repay me. One thousand.’
‘Seven hundred and fifty is all I have,’ said Jan.
‘Then it is agreed. You will pay seven-fifty. Then you can sleep in peace at night, knowing the terrible Bugis men will not come and steal your money.’
Jan could see the sense of that. He laughed along with the crew and the deal was done. One-Eye turned and spat over the railing.
Jan’s elation at finding a boat to take him to Java was tempered by disappointment. He did not find his father’s grave nor was he encouraged to believe it would ever be found. He began his search at the Netherlands Embassy. They were expecting him, but they could give him no more information than they already had in their correspondence with him. Once more they told him the circumstances of his father’s death as far as they could ascertain.
He had been rounded up with several other Europeans. The Japanese had separated the men from the women and marched them away towards the prison at Changi. Along the route they passed a building site where some Japanese soldiers had captured a group of Malays or Javanese—no one was exactly sure—and were executing them. There were women and children among the men who were also being shot. Again no one is sure why. Their bodies were thrown into the trenches and pits which had been dug for foundations.
Jan’s father saw this outrage and reacted instinctively. He broke free from the column and ran over to remonstrate with the Japanese officer in charge. The officer withdrew a pistol from his belt and shot him dead without a word. The executions continued uninterrupted.
Given the circumstances, his father’s body was probably buried along with the bodies of the other victims, somewhere on that building site. Nobody could be sure. And nobody was even sure where the building site was.
There are no soft edges to news of this kind. Tone of voice can show sympathy and understanding. But there is no point in promoting false hope. Jan was lucky, they said, because at least he knew what had happened. Others were less fortunate. Their loved ones had simply disappeared, lost without trace. His father had acted rashly but there could be nothing but respect for his courage. That was small consolation, but consolation nonetheless.
They offered him one glimmer of hope. Sometimes the Malays returned to claim their dead when the Japanese moved on. There were many confirmed instances of this happening. If they had, they may also have taken Jan’s father’s body with them, and buried him with the honour due to one who had tried to help their kind. Perhaps if Jan asked around the Malay quarter he might find someone who recalled the incident.
Jan knew from the beginning it was a long shot. But he owed it to his mother and his father’s memory to give it a try. He thanked the embassy staff for their help and, before he left, confirmed that the money he’d sent
on ahead would be waiting for him at the embassy in Jakarta.
For three days he walked the streets around the dock area, returning to the boat each evening to sleep. He had no fear of his Bugis crew mates nor of One-Eye, for if they planned any treachery, that would come later when they were at sea, beyond the reach of the law. The three days were not entirely fruitless though, in the final analysis, the fruit was poor.
Jan concentrated on speaking to the older Malays who no longer gave up their days to the slog of hard labour. With little else to do, they had become the repositories of knowledge for their people. They were eager to help, and tried hard to recall that particular execution.
Those who claimed to remember it were unreliable and the people they called to corroborate their story even more so. The building site where the executions occurred was variously placed from one end of the island to the other, and the execution from the days immediately following the invasion to six months afterwards. Nobody could recall if the dead were claimed. Nobody knew what had happened to his father. Jan’s father was not the only European civilian shot by the Japanese. Nor were the circumstances unique. There were many unsung heroes. On the evening of the third day of his search he put his father’s memory to rest in a long and loving letter to his mother.
They sailed the next day.
Chapter Ten
The depression Jan felt lifted the moment they put to sea. He was relieved to be away from the stale, suffocating air of the over-crowded island. He stood on the bow, arms spread to the freshening breeze, eager to help out in his new role of crew but entirely ignorant as to how he might do so. In truth there was little for him to do, and he would have only got in the way.
They cleared port under the power of their small motor, then set the sails upon the two masts. The sails were not the pristine white Jan was expecting, but dyed dark brown. They caught the wind and the schooner surged forward. Jan was elated. Their twelve hundred kilometre journey would take them around eight days, as they set course first towards Pontianak, on the island Jan knew as Borneo and the Buginese called Kalimantan. Then they would swing south, through the Karimata Strait to the Java Sea, and the port of Jakarta.
Perhaps the elation Jan felt is shared by all sailors when they leave port for the wide expanses and freedom of the ocean, for once clear of the harbour the Buginese broke into cheerful song.
Jan stood in the point of the bow and watched the flying fish scatter before them, marvelling at the distances they flew before diving back beneath the waves. He watched the sky grow steadily more blue as the land fell away behind them and, with it, the humidity that had sapped his strength. But as the sky cleared, the tropical sun grew more intense, and not even the sea breeze could cool him adequately. He turned to find the Buginese had already taken shelter. He decided to join them.
‘After so much hard work you must have an appetite.’ The captain’s voice came to him from a dark corner of the cabin. ‘Sit down. We are preparing our meal.’
Jan threw his hat down upon his pack and slowly his eyes adjusted to the gloom within the cabin. He saw the youngest of the Bugis men heating oil in a wok over a paraffin burner. He watched as the lad, roughly his own age, threw in a handful of fresh chillies. His eyes watered as he felt the bite of their fumes. The young cook added pieces of fish and vegetables and a palm full of salt.
When the meal was ready, the cook took a pot of rice off a second burner and spooned the contents into bowls. With dismay, Jan counted the bowls and saw that there were only five. Someone would miss out, either he or the helmsman, and he couldn’t imagine the helmsman missing out.
‘We have only five bowls,’ said the captain reading his mind. The men laughed, for this was a scenario they had planned. ‘My nephew the cook will eat from the rice pot.’
They passed Jan a bowl, now steaming with fish and vegetables.
‘No. I will not eat this,’ said Jan, with as much authority as he could muster. The cabin fell silent and they looked at him, wondering at his madness.
Jan looked around at the men. ‘Why should I take this bowl from the cook who has worked so hard, when I have a bowl of my own?’ He reached into his rucksack and pulled out his enamel war surplus plate.
‘Besides,’ he said, with the satisfied grin of one who has turned the joke back on the jokers, ‘my bowl is bigger.’
‘We must watch this man,’ said the captain gleefully. ‘His mouth is quick and his mind is quicker.’
Jan passed his bowl over to the cook to be filled with the fiery concoction, secure in the knowledge that no virulent organism could possibly survive the salt and the chillies. He waited to see how the crew ate their meal. Each man produced his own spoon, so Jan did likewise, not wishing to upstage them with his knife and fork. Besides, the fish was well cooked and fell apart easily. Jan reached inside his rucksack once more for his canteen, and drank from it. He did not offer it around, because he knew the Bugis men had a large barrel of fresh water from which they regularly helped themselves.
He put his canteen back inside his rucksack, aware now that One-Eye was watching him closely. He turned to meet his gaze and realised his error. One-Eye wasn’t looking at him. He was focused squarely on his rucksack, and Jan could imagine him speculating as to what other treasures might be inside it.
‘It is time now for our guest to earn his meal.’ The captain’s voice snatched Jan from his thoughts. ‘You will steer for us while we sleep. Tonight while you sleep, one of us will steer. Come with me.’
Jan followed the captain into the adjoining shack which was flatteringly referred to as the wheelhouse. Its forward windows were tightly shut and their frames so often painted over, they were destined never to reopen. The only ventilation came from portholes on either side wall, their heavy frames fastened back to admit what breeze they could. The air inside was stifling and Jan could feel the sweat begin to flow from every pore in his body.
‘Keep on this heading,’ said the captain as the helmsman handed Jan the wheel. ‘If the wind changes direction, you wake me. Okay?’
Jan took the wheel and felt the breeze die away almost at the same instant, as the captain surely knew it would. He heard a laugh from the adjoining cabin. What good was his quick mouth and even quicker mind now? He realised he hadn’t really been given the responsibility of steering the ship, but of minding it through the hot afternoon watch. He groaned but he had no choice. He had agreed to share the work and this was probably the only work he was qualified to do. All he had to do was stay awake. And with the heat of the wheelhouse and a huge meal in his belly, that would be no easy task.
He thought he would amuse himself by watching the flying fish, but they kept to the depths, preferring the risk of rampaging tuna to flight in the torpid air. The sea turned slate grey and heaved ponderously, with the heavy effort of a dying man struggling for breath. Jan searched the sky for clouds but there were none. His eyelids grew heavy and he yearned to rest them, if only for a moment. He snapped awake. How long had he slept? Hours? Minutes? Seconds? He looked around him, nerves jangled, his brain screaming for more of the brief comfort it had found. He realised with a mixture of relief and dismay that he’d only nodded off for the briefest of moments. But only a fool fails to heed such warnings.
He waited till the snoring from the aft cabin indicated that all were asleep, before tiptoeing to his rucksack for his canteen, a pen and notepaper. For the remaining three hours of his watch he wrote a letter to his mother, challenging his mind to recall every little incident and detail since their departure that morning. It didn’t matter that his mother would never read the letter because he had no intention of sending it. As he read over it, and re-read it, he had to admit it was probably the most boring letter anyone had ever written. Still, it had served its purpose. As the breeze freshened late in the day, the captain found his apprentice helmsman weary, but wide awake.
Jan should have taken the opportunity to grab some sleep but all he could think of was cooling down. He decided
to return to his favourite position at the point of the bow where the cooling wind and spray could wash over him. He looked for his hat. It wasn’t on his rucksack. It wasn’t on the floor. On his way forward he noticed One-Eye wearing it. One-Eye scowled, as if daring Jan to reclaim it.
‘It’s only a hat,’ Jan told himself.
Night fell, and they finished off the cold rice and fish by the light of oil lamps. In that flickering half-light, One-Eye looked more sinister than ever. The heat and fresh air had taken its toll on Jan, and again he fought off sleep. But he was determined not to fall asleep before One-Eye. He went back out and lay down on the timber decking.
Planets as big as footballs swung from one side of the mast to the other, as if on an inverted pendulum. Around him in the blackness, the vast reaches of the ocean merged with the infinite sweep of the universe. The boat rocked gently. The stars swam in dizzying patterns. And sleep beckoned.
Jan dragged himself to his feet and made his way to the cabin. His hat was back where he had left it, but he couldn’t have cared less. He lay down with his head pillowed on his rucksack and surrendered instantly. He slept the sleep of the innocent, profound, healing and regenerative. He would have slept soundly till dawn, if the hand moving around inside his rucksack had not tripped an alarm in his brain and dragged him from his slumbers.
He awoke disoriented, but immediately sensed a presence above him, invisible in the near total black. He felt the groping hand search out his commando knife, and made a grab for the arm. He threw his weight sideways against the intruder. But his force was met with another, even greater, and he was pushed onto his back.
A hand took hold of his throat and squeezed. He could feel his windpipe and the arteries in his neck caving in under the pressure. He wanted to cry out but no sound came. In desperation he grabbed the hand at his throat, but even with two hands he could not budge it. Then his head seemed to explode as a fist clubbed into the side of his face. He kicked upwards with his knee, a final act of defiance against the certainty of his death, and heard a sharp cry of pain. He kicked again as blackness enveloped him. He felt the hand around his neck loosen its grip, and then there was shouting.
