Black Sun, Red Moon

by Rory Marron

  For the first time, too, he looked upon his country and saw it desolate. Stacked rice terraces appeared to wrap themselves around the steep volcanic slopes, framing mile after mile of abandoned plantation. Acre upon acre of stunted tea, coffee and cocoa plants that had been chopped down then left un-watered to sprout feeble, spindly shoots. Decades of cultivation were now in ruins, and forest jungle, once relegated to the peaks, was already reclaiming much of the fertile higher slopes. Only the rubber, cinchona and sesame, deemed essential for the war effort by the Japanese, were still tended.

  Once again the train slowed almost to a crawl then screeched to yet another stop. Supplies of coal had run out long ago, so the locomotive was burning wood. Countless stops were needed to take on fuel.

  Some six hours after they left Kroja they reached Bandung with minutes to spare to catch the last train for Djakarta. Two men were waiting for Sarel. They handed him a wrapped parcel. Lamban managed to find two seats and watched as the three conversed animatedly on the platform until the train began to pull away. Sarel had to jump aboard.

  Lamban was in a rickety but crammed third-class compartment. Outside dozens clung precariously to the footboards or sat on the roof for a free ride. When Sarel finally reached him he was visibly excited. He gripped Lamban’s arm and put his mouth to his ear. ‘There is news! Did you notice the big tower on the way into the town? ‘That was the radio station mast. Some of our people who work there told me Hirohito has announced Japan’s surrender!’

  Lamban stared at him. ‘Then we’ve run out of time!’

  ‘Let’s just say the time for discussion has finished,’ Sarel replied resolutely. ‘Keep it to yourself, for now.’ He released Lamban’s arm. ‘Now I have things to prepare.’ With that he returned to his papers in silence, his face set.

  Lamban sat restlessly for a while then gave up his seat and pushed through to find a window.

  From Bandung the tracks turned north through more mountains before descending to the coastal plain where they ran parallel with the coast. After five hours they reached Tjikampek, a main junction and their progress quickened. As they neared the capital, Lamban noticed large, newly settled kampongs, already slums, clustered around each station. Furtive, hungry-looking men, women and children begged at every stop.

  As they crossed the bridge over the Tjileungsir river, Sarel made his way to Lamban. It was almost dusk. Another large kampong stretched ribbon-like beside the tracks. Sarel pointed at the makeshift shelters and small fires. ‘This is Bekassi. Three years ago its population was eight thousand. Now it’s fifteen thousand and growing every day. There’s no work and little food here. See over there, that high wall?’

  Lamban peered at a high, red-painted wooden palisade two hundred yards from the rail tracks. ‘The Chinese quarter,’ said Sarel casually. ‘The Chinks control the rice trade from here to Krawang. They have food but they won’t share. Just look at this place, these people. Filthy! Soon there will be trouble.’ Sarel had spoken as if it were fact. Lamban said nothing. He had heard the same tone after Sarel had killed the bandit.

  Thirty minutes later the train arrived in Djakarta. Much of the city was in darkness but the Central Station, a cavernous, tiled building, with a glass roof and intricate wrought-iron columns and supports, was teeming with travellers and beggars. Javanese police checked their papers and again they were let through. No Japanese troops or kenpei were to be seen.

  Once outside, Sarel led Lamban quickly to a line of two-seater bicycle-rickshaws called becaks. They climbed into the front one and the driver, who sat behind the cross-seat, began pedalling. Sarel gave the driver their destination. ‘To Weltevreden—31 Menteng. Hurry!’

  Lamban recognised the address of the headquarters of the National Youth Movement. His excitement began to soar.

  Bodjong, Semarang

  Kudo read through the short letter to his wife a second time then folded it and placed it in the envelope. His tunic, shirt and pistol belt hung over the back of his chair. He was in his vest because he had wanted to write home not as a defeated soldier but as a husband and father. After all the years it had not been easy. He leant back in his seat behind the dark, polished teak desk in the study and rubbed his red, tired eyes. The bottle of Bols from his office stood half-empty in front of him.

  Following the Emperor’s broadcast, Kudo and his staff had kicked their heels for seven hours waiting for confirmation and new orders. It had seemed like seven years. Finally, at ten thirty, a message had come from Singapore informing them simply to expect a signal the next morning. Kudo decided that Fifth Army HQ had no idea at all what was going on in Tokyo. He had dismissed his officers and had returned home, going straight to the study.

  He looked around the formally decorated yet comfortable room, knowing that he was there for the last time. Tomorrow he would leave the house…and Lena. His eyes settled on a photograph of her husband. Kudo sighed. He had never been master here, in this, a dead man’s house. At least, he thought, he would be free of the ghosts. And in Japan he would no longer be under Lena’s spell. He wondered if she had heard the news. Rumours about the surrender were rife.

  Wearily he sat up and took a deep breath, then eased his neck. He poured himself another gin and began to rummage through the desk drawers, pulling out his belongings. Among them was a small leather pouch containing brushes and gun oil. He placed it on the desk then reached behind him for his pistol.

  The door opened and he saw Lena entering with a tray. Her hibiscus-patterned blue silk robe seemed to float behind her. She paused, clearly surprised at his slightly dishevelled appearance, then she continued towards him. ‘I thought you would like some iced tea and mango,’ she said casually.

  From her tone he sensed immediately that she knew Japan was defeated. He grunted and looked away, only to hear her gasp, followed by a crash as glassware shattered. He spun round.

  The tray was on the floor. Lena stood transfixed, her face pale. She was staring at the desk.

  Perplexed, Kudo followed her gaze and saw the bottle, the letter and then the pistol. He read her thoughts. His laugh was hollow and sarcastic.

  ‘No!’ Lena screamed. She lunged wildly at the pistol, sweeping it off the desk. Then she flung herself against him, pinning him in his seat and sobbing against his chest. ‘Don’t do it! Please, don’t you die, too!’

  Kudo sat stunned. Tentatively he reached to stroke her hair. Lena did not resist him.

  Chapter Nine

  Tjandi Camp III, 16th August 1945

  The momentous mid-August morning began much as any other. Kate had overslept and she rushed down from the infirmary to the kitchens. She found her fellow cooks waiting and chatting in front of the small storerooms.

  ‘They’re still locked,’ Anna told her. ‘Mai has gone to find out how long for this time.’

  Kate sighed. Locked storerooms meant a punishment of a day or longer without food. Even so, she was glad she was back in Tjandi. Her departure from the Sakura had been regretted rather than opposed. Kiriko had even given her fifty yen and some soaps and shampoos that were worth a small fortune as barter in the camp. After Kate had signed a short letter of resignation she had only a few minutes to find Juliette to tell her she was leaving. Kate made her promise to return to the camp as soon as the Americans invaded. When she went out to the car that was to take her back, she found Rukmini inside holding similar gifts from Kiriko.

  ‘Kate! You too!’ Rukmini had smiled shyly, hugging her. ‘Oh, I’m so glad!’

  Yet there was a new awkwardness between them and they had travelled back in silence. Since their return, they had never talked of the Sakura. Ota had told her to say she had changed her mind at the last minute. Rukmini had told the same lie. Although there had been comment their quick return stalled the gossips, and the questions soon turned to envious enquiries about the food, clothes and facilities at the Guttmann House. Juliette and the others who had not returned were discussed with undisguised contempt.

  Kate w
as surprised by how quickly she got back into the camp routine. For four weeks Ota had kept his promise to supply the extra food. Something else made life bearable. When she collected the sacks she would look up at his window. More often than not he would show himself briefly.

  ‘Everybody gone!’ Mai returned, panting. She waddled quickly across the compound waving excitedly. ‘No Jap! Nobody!’

  Kate looked up at the nearest watchtower and saw it was unmanned. She squinted at the far tower. Again, there was no sign of a sentry. They looked at each other questioningly, suppressed excitement growing. Unbidden they started to walk silently towards the camp entrance. When they saw the deserted guardhouse Kate’s pulse began to race.

  They halted in a nervous huddle a few feet from the gate. Kate moved forward gingerly and raised her hand to one of the thick bamboo crosspieces. Her heart was in her mouth as she pushed. It was unlocked! She heaved and watched incredulously as the gate swung open. Ahead of her stretched the main road into Semarang. There were no Japanese in sight, only a few farmers heading for their fields.

  Kate’s hands went to her mouth. Tears filled her eyes. Next to her someone sobbed. Suddenly they were all shouting at once.

  ‘Oh, God it’s over!’—‘I don’t believe it!’—‘We’re free!’—‘The Americans have come at last!’

  Kate hugged Mai and Anna, then laughing and crying she sped off to tell her mother.

  Like wildfire the good news spread. In minutes the assembly area was teeming with joyously excited women and children. People were embracing tearfully and noisily. Many held hands in little groups to say prayers or sing hymns. Kate rushed among them looking for her friends. She hugged Marja and Rukmini, and even Julia Stam. Her elation was now tinged with regret over what her freedom meant for Ota but she could not help herself.

  Around her groups broke out into spontaneous choruses of the ‘Wilhelmina’, the Dutch national anthem. For some it was too much and they wept uncontrollably. Others cheered and waved pieces of orange clothing, the banned colour of the Dutch royal house. Renditions of ‘God Save the King’ and ‘La Marseillaise’ blended as British and French internees burst into song.

  At the sudden, chilling boom of the gong there was instant silence as two thousand apprehensive faces looked to the podium. Hundreds snapped to a conditioned, fearful attention. When Jenny Hagen, the camp leader, stepped up there were gasps of relief and then cheers. Grinning, Jenny beckoned them to her. ‘We have wonderful news!’

  They surged forward expectantly. Jenny did not disappoint them.’ The BBC says that Japan surrendered yesterday. The war is over!’ There was a momentary silence was followed by roaring cheers.

  Kate felt giddy. There would be no fighting! Ota would not die. Her chest felt tight. She sat down to catch her breath.

  Jenny was struggling to make herself heard and was waving for quiet. ‘Please! Please listen! Of course we can celebrate but a Holland Calling broadcast advised us not to gloat or antagonise the Japs in any way…or to leave the camp.’

  Her audience looked at her quizzically. Many were dumbfounded. There were groans of dismay.

  ‘It makes sense,’ Jenny pleaded. ‘The atomic bombs have completely destroyed some cities in Japan. We don’t know how the Japs here will react, so please, no loud singing and dancing.’

  One shout carried above the others. ‘Where are the Americans?’

  Jenny shrugged. ‘As far as we know the Americans have not invaded. I’m sure they will come soon. Until then, we must wait and conserve our food rations as before.’

  Disappointment and resentment was tangible. ‘We need food!’—‘What about my husband?’—‘They can’t make us stay here!’—‘I must find my family!’

  Jenny tried to shout above the chorus of disapproval. ‘Please, try and be patient just for a few days!’

  More angry shouting drowned Jenny’s pleas until a Japanese army lorry entered the camp at speed. In another uneasy silence the women watched it circle them and then stop. For several seconds there was no movement. Finally the cab doors opened and two expressionless Japanese guards emerged. Ignoring their audience, they dropped the tailgate to reveal a stack of Red Cross food parcels. The women of Tjandi cheered.

  Djakarta

  Rear-Admiral Ishida was slumped in his chair, flicking through a sheaf of papers. His open shirt was creased and he was unshaven. Empty sake bottles were lined up on the desk amidst piles of documents. Wafts of smoke entered the office through the open French windows where Tashiro, looking equally unkempt, was patiently feeding paper into a large brazier on the patio.

  Ishida dropped the file on top of a pile at his feet and picked up another. Like many, it was stamped ‘Secret’. Ishida opened it and smiled thinly. It was a Naval Intelligence report on a kenpei plan to assassinate Dr Hatta and then fake his death as a road accident. Ishida had intervened just in time to prevent it. Fortunately for Hatta, he had visited Tokyo soon afterwards and had been decorated personally by the Emperor. The award had scared off the kenpei, though they had continued to watch Hatta very carefully.

  Ishida placed the file on the ‘safe’ pile, the one that would not be destroyed before the Americans arrived. There was, he thought, no reason why Hatta should not be grateful to him in the future. Another wave of depression hit him. What future! He had, after all, been prepared for Japan’s defeat for many months. It was the manner of it that bothered him now. Unconditional surrender! That possibility had never occurred to him. It was unbelievable!

  The brief warning he had received in code from his superior, Admiral Shimizu, had not lessened the almost physical shock he had felt on hearing the broadcast. His entire staff had squeezed into the small radio room to listen. Many had been left pale and tearful. And Hiroshima and Nagasaki, what of them? Obliterated! His aunt’s family had lived in Nagasaki…. How could he ever face his own for allowing that to happen? Once again his eyes went to the holstered Nambu automatic pistol on his desk. ‘Duty first, Admiral,’ he muttered to himself.

  The telephone rang and he answered immediately. ‘Ishida… Very well. In thirty minutes will be fine. I’ll need you to interpret.’ He cradled the receiver and looked at Tashiro who was watching from the patio. ‘That was Nishioka at the Research Office. Sukarno and Hatta are with him. They are coming here.’ Ishida stood up and stretched, then saw his reflection in the ornate mirror behind his desk. ‘Let’s clean ourselves up.’

  When his three visitors arrived at Nassau Boulevard, Ishida was shaved and in a clean shirt and pressed uniform. Tashiro, also now smartly dressed, showed them into a small lounge away from the chaotic office. Hatta and Sukarno sprang out of their seats as Ishida entered. Exhaustion and anxiety were etched in both their faces.

  Sukarno, tie-less, his tailored suit showing stains and creases for once, spoke in a loud, breathless rush. ‘Admiral, the news, is it true?’ As he began, Nishioka, the interpreter, moved to stand just behind Ishida, so that Sukarno and Ishida maintained eye-contact, something that Ishida always insisted upon. The interpretation was almost simultaneous. ‘General Yamagami wouldn’t—actually no-one—would see us at Army Headquarters! There are all sorts of rumours. The BBC—’

  ‘Admiral,’ Hatta interrupted sharply, ‘we heard there was a broadcast by the Emperor. Please, tell us what he said. Has Japan surrendered?’

  Despite his reserve, Ishida swallowed audibly and half-bowed. ‘Gentlemen, it appears that the war is over. His Imperial Highness spoke of ending hostilities. I fear that Japan has failed Indonesia. I cannot be certain because we have had no official report. We are waiting for confirmation from Tokyo.’

  ‘Confirmation!’ Hatta’s shout startled Ishida. The Sumatran was staring at him with an expression of wide-eyed incredulity. It was the first time Ishida ever heard him raise his voice. The moment passed. Hatta and Sukarno exchanged looks of alarm. Sighing, Hatta sat down and let his head drop into his hands. Sukarno also sat slowly in silence, his face pale.

  After a few moments
Hatta regained his composure. ‘I can’t believe it has happened now, just days away from our declaration of independence.’

  Sukarno’s dejection was total. ‘I have never felt so useless! Japan promised us independence. Three years you have been here. We helped you, obeyed you! And for what?’

  Ishida stood in silence, his face dead-pan. Inside he cringed with bitter regret and shame.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Hatta said suddenly, his voice taut with emotion. He stood up quickly. ‘Admiral, you must excuse us. We have much to discuss.’ In silence the two nationalists filed out of the room.

  When the door had closed, Nishioka looked imploringly at Ishida. ‘Admiral, is there nothing we can do?’

  Ishida frowned. ‘Be patient. It depends now on who moves quickest, the Dutch or the Indonesians.’

  Weltevreden, Djakarta

  It was late evening when the becak tricycle turned into the entrance of the imposing building at 31 Menteng. At one side of the drive the red and white Indonesian flag flew from a pole. The becak stopped in front of a large veranda supported by a row of four thick white stone pillars. High above the lintel, Lamban made out ‘Hotel Schomper’ set out neatly in relief in the whitewashed stonework. Below it, neatly but simply painted on a wooden board was ‘Asrama New Generation’.

  Sarel paid the driver extra to wait then led Lamban up the wide steps and into the elegant and spacious reception lounge of the former hotel. Small groups of young men and a few women stood engaged in noisy, animated conversation.

  ‘Everyone knows the war’s over!’ Sarel shouted to him with a grin.

  They moved quickly down one of the building’s two wings towards the sound of applause and shouting. As they got nearer, the crowding increased and they soon had to elbow their way through.