by Rory Marron
A ripple of excitement ran through the youths. Galvanised by the phrase, they raised clenched fists and chanted. ‘Merdeka atu mati!’
Sarel’s enthusiasm was infectious and his audience was hanging on to his every word. ‘Two weeks ago, five thousand high-school students held a public rally in Ikada Square in Djakarta. They also demanded immediate independence and pledged to carry on the struggle against any oppressor! With one voice they swore the “Freedom or Death” blood oath then slashed their hands. It’s true! The square is still stained red! Afterwards, a delegation demanded to see Sukarno. He told them, “The future of Indonesia lies in the hands of our youth.” I swear those were his very words!’
A beaming, near-ecstatic smile lit up Sarel’s face. ‘Just a week later Sukarno and Hatta invited our representatives to join the new National Indonesia Independence Party. Can you imagine our elation, Lamban? At long last, our leaders could see and value the strength of the pemuda, the youth of Indonesia.’
His expression darkened. ‘For three days we stood and debated with Sukarno and Hatta in person! We called on them to end the negotiations, the endless delays and the fawning to the Japs. They listened, smiling, then dismissed us as impetuous and naive!’
Sarel shrugged. ‘They still do not see us, Lamban. Neither do they see that Japan is finished nor that all their procedures and committees are pointless. Our fight will be with the Dutch and anyone who helps them. There must be no negotiation, no bargaining, no more meetings. In this we pemuda, we who have nothing with which to bargain and so nothing to lose but our lives, must take the lead. With God’s help we will succeed!’
A chorus of approving shouts greeted the end of the speech. ‘Yes! It’s the only way!’—‘We will push the Dutch back into the sea!’—‘God is with the righteous!’
Sarel let them be; then motioned for quiet. ‘Lamban, soon the Dutch will return and the fighting will commence. It is a matter of a few months, no more. Everyone in this room has pledged his life for our country. Also, we have taken an oath not to lie with women or cut our hair until Indonesia is free. Why? Slaves only breed more slaves. Our hair serves as our badge. We did not hide our oath from the kenpei. As it grows longer, so it is more difficult to disguise and so more dangerous for us not to act.’
‘No-one here doubts your bravery, Lamban. We know you love your country and that you are our true Muslim brother. It is more than enough for us. We invite you to join us and become a Black Buffalo. What is your answer?’
Lamban looked at the expectant faces. He felt excited, certain now that his meeting with Sarel had been God’s will. But he also remembered the swift execution of the Communist. He was under no illusion as to Sarel’s nature. Already he knew too much about the group to be allowed to live should he refuse. But he did not want to refuse. He stood up.
With great formality Sarel handed him a copy of the Koran.
Lamban spoke without hesitation. ‘I swear on this holy book that I will give my life for the independence of Indonesia. Until my country is truly free, I will not lie with a woman or cut my hair. Allahu akbah!’
Around Lamban the Black Buffalos began the Freedom chant.
‘Merdeka!’—‘Merdeka!’—‘Merdeka!’
Chapter Seven
Tjandi Camp III
For a few days Kate tried to convince herself that the stoppage of the extra food was an understandable precaution on the part of the Japanese lieutenant. After a second week, she wondered whether he was punishing her. His slap had hurt but the instant she had seen Shirai she understood that she had risked far worse for her indiscretion.
Her small reserve of food and medicines was soon exhausted. Cramping, sickly hunger pangs soon returned with a vengeance, and they seemed worse than she ever remembered them. She had started to feel weaker and her mother’s condition also regressed.
By the end of the third week, Kate was starting to despair. Frequently she risked a beating and solitary confinement by smuggling her mother bits of food from the Japanese kitchen. But it was never enough. Somehow she knew she had to see the lieutenant and beg for his help, whatever the consequences.
Kate spent long, lonely vigils watching the guesthouse. Finally, one morning nearly three weeks after the incident in the camp, her heart sank when she saw a different male face at the window. She left the garden close to tears.
Raised voices were coming from her hut. Kate groaned when she recognised the haughty tones of Julia Stam. ‘But Lady Teresa is the Governor-General’s wife!’
Julia was a tall, slim, slightly stooped woman of about fifty-five who stalwartly maintained the colonial tradition of fawning. She lived in the main school building where Teresa van Gaal and a small group of Java’s former well-to-do held court. They had been among the first arrivals in Tjandi and had laid claim to far more than their fair share of living space. Less deferential inmates referred to them scathingly as the ‘Bridge Club’.
In the early days, Lady Teresa, her teenage daughter Elizabeth, Julia Stam and the other members of the Bridge Club had loftily assumed that they were exempt from gardening, cooking and latrine duties. Their assumption had been short-lived and had ended with several being given black eyes by their social inferiors. Despite that painful humbling, they would occasionally try to reassert their lost status.
Kate could see Julia was struggling to maintain her poise. ‘All we ask is that Lady Teresa and Lizzy be allowed a few minutes’ privacy while they bathe.’
Julia was arguing with the feisty Gretchen Herfkens. Gretchen had run a bar—and, rumour had it, a brothel—on the Semarang waterfront. Before the war, Julia would have crossed the street to avoid her. Now she was sharing the same latrines.
Gretchen was fuming. ‘Privacy! You got to be kidding! The Japs in the watchtowers can see us showering and peeing for Christ sake! Why don’t you ask them if milady’s shit smells any different from mine!’
‘How dare you be so disrespectful!’ Julia hissed.
‘Disrespectful to whom?’ Gretchen raged. ‘Pompous fools who lied to us and then let the Japs walk all over us!’
Livid, Julia drew herself up to her full height. ‘When you insult Lady Teresa you insult her Majesty Queen Wilhelmina!’
‘Julia, have you forgotten that the great and the good wouldn’t let us leave Java? That it’s their fault we’re stuck here?’
Julia was not listening. ‘I should have expected this from rubbish like you!’
Gretchen flared. ‘Rubbish am I! You arrogant bitch! For three years you’ve been trying to lord it over us—two thousand half-starving women and children. People dying every day and all you can worry about is who’s eligible for your bloody club and what’s happened to your silverware!’
‘You cheap—’
‘Tenko! Tenko!’ Two guards and a civilian administrator, a Javanese woman called Salina, strode into the hut announcing a roll-call. Their argument forgotten, the women bowed immediately to the guards and to Salina, who enjoyed her work.
‘Hurry!’ Salina demanded sharply in Dutch. ‘Over sixteen and under thirty-five-year-old whites and half-castes only.’ She turned quickly and marched out to the next hut.
Perplexed, the women moved to obey. Fifteen minutes later almost six hundred women were lined up. Kate stood next to Rukmini. Unexpectedly it was Shirai who strode up to the podium. Salina, a male civilian administrator and Shirai’s interpreter stood nearby.
‘I have an official announcement,’ Shirai began casually. His interpreter’s delivery was quick and crisp. ‘As of today, all women separated from their husbands for more than twelve months are hereby declared legally divorced under Japanese law.’
Gasps of astonishment ran through the assembled women.
‘Shizuka ni shite!’—Be quiet!
Instantly they were silent, their eyes lowered.
Shirai held up a strip of red cloth. ‘Also, from today all women aged between sixteen and thirty-five are to wear these armbands. You will line up and collect one no
w. That is all.’ Shirai strode away.
Salina and the other administrator set up a trestle table and opened cardboard boxes full of armbands. One by one the women were called forward. Kate gave in her name and was ticked off the list. Then she was handed an armband. A single Japanese character had been stencilled on it in white ink. As Kate walked away she turned and saw Rukmini speaking respectfully to Salina who replied sharply in Javanese.
‘What did you say to her?’ Kate asked her quietly.
Rukmini looked troubled. ‘I asked what this meant.’
‘And?’
‘She said it means “Adult” or something like that.’
‘But what’s it for?’ Kate pressed.
Her friend shrugged. ‘She said we’d find out soon enough.’
Rukmini’s question was answered just before midday when leaflets offering work as waitresses, dance partners, musicians and singers at officers’ clubs in Central and East Java were distributed through the camp. Jobs were only open to single women over sixteen and under thirty-five. Benefits included off-camp housing, three full meals a day, soaps, cosmetics and clothing. Volunteers would be collected the next day. The advertisement was signed ‘H. Guttmann’.
That night the divorce order and the leaflet were the only topics of conversation. Many of the married women were openly distraught. There were regular rumours that Javanese women were being provided to the men in their camps. For many, the order served as confirmation.
‘They can’t do it!’ sobbed one. ‘We’ve been married nineteen years!’
Agnes Kuyt held out her arms. ‘If my husband saw me like this, a bag of bones, he’d want a divorce all right.’
Another scoffed. ‘You really think he’ll look any better?’
‘It’s fine by me,’ said Margaret Martens sternly.
There were several sympathetic glances. Margaret’s husband was a senior officer in the Netherlands Indies Air Force. Two days before the surrender he had flown to Australia, taking his Javanese mistress with him.
For a time the hut fell silent as each woman wrestled with private thoughts and fears. Finally, Gretchen cleared her throat and looked at Kate and some of the younger women. ‘Well then, “young” ladies, how many of you are going to volunteer?’
Irene Jansen, a missionary’s wife, scowled. ‘It’s for one thing only,’ she said scathingly. ‘Prostitution!’ She spat the word out.
‘Obviously,’ said Gretchen impatiently. ‘But it’s a way out of here and to a full stomach.’
‘You said it,’ snorted one of the younger mothers, ‘full with a bastard Jap baby!’
‘I’m not letting my girls go,’ declared another, older inmate.
‘I’d rather die!’ said a brunette in her twenties.
Gretchen turned to her unimpressed. ‘If you stay here that’s a certainty,’ she snapped. The woman began to cry.
Kate looked slowly around the room. Anna and Marja shook their heads quickly. Only Rukmini would not meet her gaze.
Later, Kate went to the infirmary. Her mother had already heard the news. She was pale and very weak. ‘Promise me you won’t do this, Kate,’ she pleaded.
‘Mama, we both need food and you need medicine. You know that.’
‘Oh God! Kate, please, no!’
At roll-call the next afternoon, Kate stood next to Juliette. Both were wearing the red armbands. Neither spoke to the other. Salina was checking the register but Shirai and half-a-dozen kenpei were standing nearby, watching with interest. An open-backed Isuzu lorry was parked at one side of the compound.
After a few minutes a dark blue Packard saloon swept through the camp gate and stopped near the Isuzu. To some consternation, a plump, well-dressed white woman got out and mounted the podium. She addressed them in a confident, heavily German-accented Dutch. ‘Good afternoon, ladies, my name is Helga Guttmann. I am an employment agent. There are job vacancies at clubs patronised by Japanese officers. In remuneration you will get three good meals a day, your own bedroom, hot baths, clean sheets and new clothes. All the comforts of home!’ She paused, searching out and smiling maternally at some of the prettier girls. ‘Also, you will be able to send food parcels to your families here in the camp. Are there any questions?’
The women stood silently, eyes darting left and right.
‘No?’ Guttmann continued smiling. ‘Good. All those who are interested, please come forward and wait by the truck.’
Kate’s stomach twisted and she took a deep breath. With her gaze fixed firmly on the ground she took a step forward. As she moved, she heard Marja’s voice. ‘Kate, come back!’ She did not stop.
Along the rows, other pleas rang out. ‘Melanie, no!’—‘Ruki!’—‘Sophie, please don’t!’
As Kate pushed through the front row she glanced up and saw Shirai staring at her intently. Despite the heat she suddenly felt cold. She lowered her gaze until the lorry screened her. There were footsteps behind her and she turned, dreading whom it might be. With relief she saw it was Juliette. They hugged each other. Rukmini was following close behind.
Juliette tried to joke. ‘Food then love!’ Kate was feeling queasy and could not reply.
Sixteen had volunteered. They stood in silence, avoiding each other’s eyes.
Helga Guttmann ushered them quickly into the lorry. Kate found herself by the tailgate, next to Juliette, and facing a relaxed and overweight Japanese guard.
Gradually the women lost some of their reticence and they even managed a weak cheer as they went through the camp gate. A few minutes later they pulled over behind Guttmann’s car to wait while a small convoy unloaded men and equipment outside a barracks.
Kate gave a sudden start. Standing in the road and brushing dust from his uniform was the young officer. He turned to look at the lorry. When he saw Kate his eyes widened in surprise and then dismay. She gave him a regretful half-smile then looked down as the lorry pulled away. At the first turn she glanced back and saw him staring after her. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the tailgate.
Djatingaleh Barracks, Semarang
Ota found Nagumo in the mess hall. His friend greeted him warmly. ‘O-kaeri!’—Welcome back!
‘Thanks,’ said Ota.
‘How were the hot-spring baths up there?’ Nagumo asked between noisy slurps of his noodles. ‘I was so envious!’
‘Um? Oh, very pleasant,’ Ota said distractedly, his train of thought far away. He looked around almost furtively. ‘I need to talk to you about something.’
‘Eh?’ Nagumo looked a little surprised as Ota led him to a corner table out of earshot of the other diners. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ Nagumo asked him. ‘These aren’t bad at all,’ he said, slurping again.
‘I’ll eat later,’ said Ota quickly, his voice low. ‘This morning I saw some of the women leaving Little Holland. One of the guards told me they’ve accepted jobs at the brothels. I need to know when and where they are going to start.’
Nagumo grinned. ‘I don’t think it will be a secret for long!’
‘No, you misunderstand,’ Ota said impatiently. ‘I want to get there first.’
‘Don’t we all!’ Nagumo guffawed, spilling his soup.
‘No, not that! I want to find one of them before—Look, will you help me?’
Nagumo stopped eating and ran his tongue over his teeth. He looked at Ota sternly. ‘Let me guess. It’s “shower girl” isn’t it?’
Ota reddened. ‘Yes.’ Embarrassed, he looked away.
Nagumo looked at him in exasperation. ‘I knew it. You’re daft! Why didn’t you set her up in a house in town like Omura and Ishii did with their women?’
Ota sighed. ‘I can’t explain now. Can you find out from the clubs if they have any Dutch girls starting?’
Nagumo shrugged. ‘New girls usually start on a Saturday night. It brings in business for the whole week. It’s “word of arse” as you might say,’ he added with a smirk. ‘Anyway, what are you going to do if you find her?’
‘I want t
o talk with her. If necessary, I’ll pay.’
Nagumo scratched the stubble on his chin, frowning. ‘Talk? She’s young, pretty, probably a virgin.’
Ota looked at him askance. ‘I don’t see what—’
‘It means it’ll be a very expensive chat,’ Nagumo explained in friendly exasperation. ‘And there might be competition.’
Ota’s face fell. ‘Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.’ Then he shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. As you keep saying, we aren’t saving for retirement.’
Nagumo lifted his bowl and drained it noisily. ‘Well, as I remember she’s skinny, so maybe you’ll get a discount! What’s her name?’
‘Kate,’ said Ota quietly, saying her name aloud for the first time.
The Guttmann House, Semarang
Nearly thirty minutes after leaving Tjandi, Kate and the others arrived at an imposing, three-storied mansion on a former colonial estate. A second vehicle carrying volunteers from two other camps arrived a few minutes later. Waiting for the new arrivals in a courtyard at the rear of the house were several bubbly Javanese girls who insisted they strip on the spot. They then escorted them to spotlessly clean mandi rooms, a seemingly inexhaustible supply of soaps, shampoos and soft, clean towels. Within a few minutes the house was echoing with feminine laughter and squeals of delight. Small plumes of smoke rose from the courtyard as their camp clothes were burned.
Helga Guttmann was true to her word. Each day the women received fresh food and copious vitamin pills. Meals were small but frequent. Helga explained that this was to remove the temptation to gorge. When they were not eating or bathing, they rested under mosquito nets and fans on clean sheets and feather pillows. On the third day a Javanese woman doctor also examined them thoroughly, and intimately.
Kate shared a twin room with Juliette. Neither had realised how exhausted camp life had left them. They both gave in willingly to the pampered, lazy routine of the house, sleeping for hours on end, their days merging into nights. Yet they could never quite forget that soon they would be called upon to pay for their comforts. And so, in the quiet moments before sleep they would discuss the inevitable.
