by Rory Marron
Kudo felt the familiar ache in his loins. He remembered the first time he had seen her. It was two days after the Dutch capitulation. The single road along the coast had been strewn with cars, luggage and possessions abandoned in panic by Europeans trying to reach long-departed or long-sunk evacuation ships. Chaos reigned in the cities and towns. Looting had been rife and Semarang was no exception. Searching from house to house for Allied soldiers, his battalion had come upon dozens of murdered white men, women and children.
At their approach to one elegant gateway they heard a shot. Kudo led a platoon up a neat curving driveway to find a well-dressed young woman, trembling but defiant, at the front door. She was keeping a gang of looters at bay with a large calibre revolver, holding it with both hands. Two bodies lay on the ground. One was an elderly European, the other a Javanese.
The looters were jeering at her and creeping nearer. One of them charged. The woman fired and the looter dropped heavily on the steps, dead. Another edged nearer and she pulled the trigger again. A sharp, hollow click from the empty chamber was greeted with a roar of triumph as the gang surged forward. She dropped the gun and flung herself back against the door, her hand darting inside her blouse and drawing a small, curved knife which she pressed hard against her neck.
Her determined look stopped the looters again. Kudo, still unseen and still some twenty yards away, had been full of admiration. His pistol was trained on the gang. One of them lifted his sarong and gestured lewdly as he stepped forward. He spun and fell with a bullet in his head. Panic ensued as the looters tried to flee. Six more were shot before the rest flung themselves to their knees begging for mercy.
Kudo’s eyes had not left the woman. He had bowed politely and then moved quickly up on to the veranda. She was quivering and her fierce gaze almost looked through him. The blade was still at her throat, her knuckles white around the haft. A thin trickle of blood was running down her neck, staining the collar of her blouse. ‘Madame, excuse me,’ he had said to her softly in English, ‘I am the law here. You are safe now. But I must search this house.’
Slowly he had reached for her hand, gently easing the knife away from her neck. Her eyes flashed at him, suddenly calm. Then she had run sobbing to the dead European.
By the time Kudo had come out of the house the woman and the body of the European had disappeared. Kudo had been disappointed. Two days later, when offered a requisitioned private residence for his own use he had chosen the same house. When he arrived, a suitcase was on the steps. The woman was waiting inside. Through an interpreter he learnt her name was Lena, that she was twenty-four and recently widowed. The looters had murdered her father-in-law. Kudo had given her the choice of a camp or to stay on as his housekeeper. Lena had stayed, gradually relaxing in his presence. He altered nothing inside the house except to ask her to remove the now banned photographs of the Dutch Queen, Wilhelmina. Lena had picked up basic Japanese quickly and when he entertained his officers at home she was always the perfect hostess.
One night, some five months after he had saved her from the mob, he had drunk too much and tried to kiss her. In an instant the knife was again at her throat, her meaning very clear. The next morning he had apologised.
For over two years she had cooked, cleaned, sewn and waited on him without complaint. Every night she slept at the foot of his bed like a dutiful Javanese servant. And every night he fell asleep wondering if she did it to punish him, or whether she even cared about the occasional trace of the Sakura girls’ perfumes on his clothes.
Tjandi Camp III
Ota was taking the short cut through ‘Little Holland’ to meet Nagumo. Still elated from his tournament win, he was almost upon Kate before he saw her. She was alone and bowing but smiling hesitantly. ‘Domo arigato.’—Thank you very much, she said quietly.
Ota flushed. Instinctively he began to bow back, a smile forming. He froze as Shirai and two junior kenpei suddenly rounded a corner. In panic his face twisted into a ferocious scowl. The back of his hand flashed out catching Kate hard across the face.
‘Aaah!’ She reeled away clutching her stinging cheek.
Ota’s stomach twisted with guilt. But he knew that if Shirai ever suspected that he was interested in her, she would be brutalised without hesitation. He pictured the kenpei finding some of the rations he had given her. It would all have been for nothing! He carried on with his cruel but vital charade. ‘Tadashi rei no benkyo shite!’—Learn to bow properly! He bellowed, genuinely angry with himself for being caught off guard and certain that the kenpei had noticed something.
Kate saw Shirai and dropped to her knees bowing repeatedly, her face ashen. ‘Gomenasai!’—I’m very sorry! Her shoulders shook in genuine terror.
Ota spun to greet Shirai with a sharp salute. Shirai stopped, glancing down casually at Kate. He did not return the salute. ‘Well, Ota, at least you know how to treat these scum! Or is it something else?’ Shirai stared inquisitively at Kate, then at Ota.
Ota tensed. He could think of nothing to say.
‘Thought you’d try a little white meat? She’s pretty enough, isn’t she?’ Shirai stared at Kate grinning slyly. He made to move away, then paused, his eyes icy. ‘There will be a re-match, Lieutenant. Of that be certain.’ With a nod to his minions to follow he strode off without a backward glance.
Ota sighed with relief. Kate was still on her knees, her forehead on the ground trembling. He desperately wanted her to look up so she would see the remorse in his eyes. But she did not move. Nearby two middle-aged women who had witnessed the encounter were watching Ota furtively. Embarrassed and contrite, he whirled and stomped away. The women rushed to Kate.
‘It’s all right now, dear,’ said one. ‘You know how touchy they are,’ the other tut-tutted. ‘What on earth did you say to him?’
Kate ignored them and stared after Ota as he crossed the compound heading for the main gate. Tears were streaming down her face.
‘Well, don’t worry,’ said one of the women looking around carefully. ‘It won’t be long now before they get some of their own medicine. They say MacArthur’s reached Borneo!’
‘Oh, wonderful!’ the other exclaimed happily. ‘The swine won’t be laughing then!’
Ota went straight to the bar of the Officers’ Club. When Nagumo arrived he sensed his friend’s foul mood immediately. For the first time in a year Ota got very drunk. He awoke with a terrible hangover on a futon in Nagumo’s billet. Later that morning he was instructed to take his platoon to relieve a detachment at Ambarawa, some twenty-five miles inland. The order was effective immediately.
Chapter Six
Admiral Ishida’s Residence. Nassau Boulevard, Djakarta
The evening was humid and without a breeze, so Ishida had received his two visitors and their interpreter on the veranda. Both men were in their early forties. They came as plaintiffs but the contrast between the two, one a Javanese the other a Sumatran, could not have been starker.
Sukarno, the Javanese, was tall, solidly built and dressed in a neat, short-sleeved white silk shirt and blue tie. Dr Hatta, the Sumatran was short, round-faced and wore a rumpled cotton suit. Where the former was outspoken and impatient, the latter was restrained and deliberate. While Sukarno had become the voice of Indonesian nationalism, Hatta was the brains behind the movement.
Both were frequent visitors to Ishida’s home and they spoke freely, as equals, and almost as friends. Yet tonight Ishida was irritated. First, because Sukarno had been repeating himself for nearly thirty minutes, and second because, in deference to Hatta’s devout religious beliefs, he was forgoing his usual evening drink.
Sukarno leant forward with his hands clasped in an appeal to Ishida. He was clearly a very worried man.
‘But you must have heard something? Surely you can give us an approximate schedule now? It’s been so long!’ The interpreter, an effacing, slightly built Japanese youth of about seventeen who had grown up on Java, sat between and behind the Indonesians. His interpretation was almos
t simultaneous but devoid of the emotion of the original.
Ishida’s despair and embarrassment were genuine. Months earlier the Japanese Government had announced it would consider the conditions necessary for Indonesian independence. Ecstatic, the nationalist leaders had appointed a constitutional committee and started tabling issues for discussion. Yet Ishida had suspected it had been merely a feeble attempt by Japan to embarrass the Dutch. He had been proved right. Army administrators controlling Java had let the committee meet just twice.
‘Our support outside the cities is weak,’ added Sukarno dejectedly. ‘We still have no organisational base in rural Java. The Islamic associations are virtually unopposed. Rice seizures and the labour call-ups do our campaign no good at all. Many go hungry. People criticise the National Party openly.’
Ishida could not help but feel a cynical amusement at Sukarno’s sudden concern for his party’s standing. For three years the man had willingly broadcast and toured the Indies, urging full co-operation with Tokyo’s policies and urging his people to support Japan’s war effort. The Japanese had chosen him and in so doing they had taken a minor activist and made him the voice of Indonesia! And now that the Japanese sun was setting, he was afraid of becoming tainted. Such ingratitude, thought Ishida. How selfish, but then how predictable!
Hatta cleared his throat and adjusted his simple, round-framed glasses before speaking. Ishida knew him well enough to know he was also tiring of Sukarno’s bleating.
‘It is true, Admiral, that Japanese policies are causing friction in the countryside,’ Hatta began. ‘Naturally our representatives get short shrift from starving farmers. But we also face other difficulties. We are well-educated, well-travelled townsmen. In truth we have little in common with ignorant, superstitious villagers on the bottom rung of a feudal ladder. Their idea of progress has little to do with The Rights of Man or Das Kapital but much to do with promises of full stomachs.’
‘As you well know, I have no influence on Army policy regarding labour programmes or rice levies,’ Ishida replied regretfully. ‘My capacity is limited to liaison and certain educational initiatives. I regret I cannot do more.’
All three knew Ishida’s comment was an understatement. To the Army’s consternation, one of his ‘initiatives’ had been the Asrama Merdeka, the Independence Study Centre. There, to the fury of the excluded kenpeitai, the Navy had sponsored open debates on Indonesia’s political future. Even vociferous opponents of the Japanese like Sjahrir and Jarisha had been invited to lecture.
‘No-one doubts your enthusiasm for our cause,’ Hatta interjected politely. ‘But unless we get approval for party offices throughout the country our influence with the masses will never be great. Also, we need permission to travel to the other islands and hold meetings.’
Ishida opened his palms in a gesture of helplessness. ‘Both those things are solely in the remit of the Army. Unless they are instructed by Tokyo nothing will change. Alas, our Government is now preoccupied with other things. Please, consider our situation.’
Sukarno hands balled into fists. ‘Japan must grant us independence soon. You are losing the war. Time is running out!’
Hatta sat back, his fingers interlaced on his lap looking every inch the lawyer he was. His tone, once again, was conciliatory yet precise. ‘What my colleague means is that it is vital we face the Allies as a legal sovereign state, recognised as such by another, major sovereign state, namely Japan, before the Dutch attempt to return. If not, the Dutch will be able to deny us representation in the new United Nations. Then our chance will have been lost.’
Ishida was greatly impressed, yet again, by Hatta. Such a brilliant mind, he thought. He had never met anyone so dedicated or purposeful. It was easy to understand how much of a problem Hatta had been for the Dutch. Twenty years earlier, when Hatta was living in Amsterdam, he had been charged with sedition, but the young lawyer had won his case in the courts. When he had returned to the Indies he was arrested again, this time under repressive colonial laws that allowed no trial, and exiled to a disease-ridden island wilderness. He had been there for fifteen years until the Japanese had freed him in 1942.
It was strange, Ishida considered, how the Dutch exiled their opponents but then, after Pearl Harbor, how they had panicked and rushed them back to Batavia to conjure up a place in a future Dutch commonwealth for Java. Clearly it was an act of desperation. Why else would they have invited Hatta and Sukarno to flee with them to Australia! But Hatta had long known the Dutch Empire was built on sand. In just nine days the Japanese tsunami had swept it all away.
‘Admiral, anything you can do in these difficult times to help us make our case will be greatly appreciated,’ Hatta added. ‘But for now, I think we have said enough.’ He stood up to leave. To Ishida’s relief Sukarno glumly followed suit.
‘I understand completely,’ agreed Ishida. He rose and shook hands with his guests. ‘You have shown great patience. Keep petitioning the Army and let us hope it will not be too long before your efforts are rewarded.’
When he was alone Ishida silently cursed his lack of influence. He had realised long ago that Hatta saw him simply as a useful pawn but it did not bother him. Hatta had understood, even written, that a Pacific war was necessary before Indonesian independence could occur. He had bided his time, waiting for the Dutch to be ejected. Now he was just waiting again, this time for the Japanese to pack up and go. Then he would pick up the pieces and fashion a country.
Ishida had to admire the man’s strategy. How the kenpei loathed him! Sad though, he mused, that he needs an arrogant lightweight like Sukarno. But if not Sukarno then who else would bring the Javanese to the party? It’s a pity that Hatta’s from Sumatra. He’s too intellectual, just like Sjahrir and Jarisha, also Sumatrans. But the Javanese won’t stand for a non-Javanese leader and the Sumatrans distrust the Javanese. So much for tolerance and national unity! But what does it matter? Even if Japan does grant independence they’ll soon be squabbling among themselves and the Dutch will simply stroll back to power, playing one island off against another.
He stretched, easing his neck, then paused dejectedly. Sukarno was right about one thing at least. Time is running out! What are they doing in Tokyo?
Impatiently he rang for a servant. In seconds an elderly, effacing man trotted out on to the veranda and bowed.
‘Sake!’ snapped Ishida, his evening thoroughly ruined. The servant whirled and rushed to obey.
Tegal, central Java coast
Lamban stopped at the roadside stall and unslung his backpack. He sat on a bench under a palm-leaf awning while he rummaged for a half-rupiah coin to buy a coconut and star fruits.
It was the sixth day of his journey west. On the fourth he had woken to find his bicycle had been stolen. He had carried on, walking in the early mornings and late afternoons, and resting during the hottest part of the day. At night, he had respectfully claimed the hospitality for the traveller required by Islam and had slept comfortably in the clean but Spartan hut each hamlet or village kept for that purpose. In normal times he could have expected a meal as well, but only the first three had a meagre amount of food to spare. Fortunately, he had a small bag of rice with him. Now the bag was almost empty and he was still several days’ walk from the capital. Nowhere could he buy rice or bread.
Along the coast the roads had been surprisingly busy. Few questions had been asked of him. Most of the travellers were half-starved farmers and plantation workers from the interior who had given up on the land and were heading for the larger coastal towns and cities to try and find work or alms. Many were young or middle-aged men. Only rarely did Lamban see a man accompanied by a wife and children. At night around camp fires there was little talk of home. Many had abandoned their families.
People quickly became suspicious of him when he asked about Sukarno or even where he could get rice, thinking him either a Japanese spy or a black-marketer. Only the day before, he had seen the hanging, mutilated corpse of a Chinese merchant. The man
’s arms had been hacked off and the word ‘usurer’ cut into his chest.
‘I can’t make a living anymore,’ grumbled the tiny, wizened woman serving him. ‘No one has money for coconuts and fruit these days. They go on hikes to pick their own. It’s nothing but bad news and misery. It wasn’t like this when the Dutch were here.’
Lamban sighed. It was not the first time he had heard people speak favourably of the Dutch, so he was no longer surprised by such sentiments. His own experiences and the deprivation he had seen on the road had left him chastened. Yet despite that, he could not let the statement pass unchallenged. ‘That will change soon,’ he replied with forced confidence. ‘Once we have won our independence we will be free to—’
‘Starve to death!’ quipped the crone. ‘Tell me, my would-be Diponegoro, while you are winning our freedom who will be planting the rice and wheat?’
‘Well, I—’ he stammered, caught off guard.
Enjoying his confusion she prattled on. ‘I’ve seen many rebellions in my time: Bantam, Solok and Kediri—I lost a son to one. They all ended the same way. Executions, prison and higher taxes! You young fools know nothing!’
‘But if we don’t try—’ They were interrupted by revving from a tired engine. Lamban glanced down the road. An old, rusting lorry was approaching. A large, rectangular green flag fluttered above the passenger window.
‘Masjumi,’ whispered the woman, her expression now bright in the expectation of a sale. The Masjumi was the largest Islamic association in Java. For many Javanese its word was law. But not Lamban, to him it was too subservient to the Japanese. Unconcerned, he returned to the awning to rest his legs and eat his coconut.
