The Interpreter from Java

by Alfred Birney

  ‘Arto, come and sit down,’ he said. ‘Wait, let me pour you a stiff drink first.’

  It was the last thing I wanted, but I accepted out of courtesy. ‘I say, Arto,’ Dikotta went on, ‘I am being transferred to the Intelligence section. Captain Groeneveld has asked me to work under his command. I need a man out in the field, an informer I can trust. You are the first man I thought of. It’s a dangerous assignment: you will be shadowing some sinister characters and you will not be armed. At most you will carry a fighting knife. Assistance from KNIL patrols will only be available when you report back and you will be paid according to the value of your intelligence. What do you say, Arto? I’m telling you straight, not everyone is cut out for this kind of work.’

  I thought about it for a while and accepted the job of informer, having first complained bitterly about going into the field unarmed. Dikotta was right, this kind of work wasn’t for everyone. Only for a man as tired of life as I was.

  *

  A long-held wish was finally fulfilled. The war had put the process on hold, but at last I was able to change my name. At the offices of the town clerk, a note was made in the margin of my birth certificate. From that moment on, I would go through life as Noland, and not ‘Nolan’ in quotation marks. That one letter changed me from within, set me apart from the colonialist taint of the Eurasians and the fair-skinned Dutch Indo elite. It made a new man of me, you might say. I relished the chance to go through life as a Dutchman born of the Indies, loyal to the House of Orange. To me, ‘Noland’ simply had a nice ring to it. I was oblivious to the fact that my new surname suggested I was stateless.

  *

  At GHQ, I asked Captain Galliër if I could pay for my own passage and sail for the Netherlands on one of the Marine transport ships. The captain passed on my request to the staff, but it was refused. My hopes crushed, I returned home. To my amazement, I discovered that there were Dutchmen in the ranks of the Marine Brigade Security Service who were very reluctant to sail home. A few went looking for good civilian posts while others were offered jobs in the enterprises of East Java. I continued to operate as an informer for the intelligence service of A Division under Piet Dikotta and Captain Groeneveld. It called for steady, slow-paced detective work.

  My first big fish was First Lieutenant Hoenholtz of the Marine Corps. Although officially out of service, I was allowed to frequent the Marines Club and the staff there still treated me as a marine – a boost to my flagging morale. I got talking to Hoenholtz at the bar one evening. He was an Indo, every bit as brown as I was, much darker in fact, and he spoke Dutch with a marked Indies accent. After a few drinks, he began to sound off about the Royal Navy, cursing the discrimination against coloureds that was apparent throughout the ranks. Unfortunately, I could only concur with his hatred of this injustice, but as the conversation went on, I began to draw him out. He started cursing the Royal Family, the Dutch government and the Dutch people as a whole. I held my tongue and let him blow off steam, filing his comments away at the back of my mind as a good story for my counterintelligence report. I ordered more booze and let Hoenholtz do the drinking. The floodgates opened and he began listing a whole catalogue of names, marines who had defected to the Indonesian Navy. Among them was a name I knew well: Freddie Onsoe. His defection did not surprise me in the least. When Hoenholtz was well and truly plastered, I made my excuses and left. He saluted with a cry of ‘Tetep!’

  That was a term used only by members of APRA units, a militia group for which I had a certain sympathy. They were pro-independence but also federalists, fiercely opposed to President Sukarno’s dictatorial regime.

  I drew up a substantial report and submitted it to Piet Dikotta. He was not surprised by Hoenholtz’s shifting allegiance and ordered me to continue shadowing him.

  One evening, standing at the corner of Simpang and looking towards Ketabang, I saw a military column approaching on Palmenlaan. Six motorcyclists from the Indonesian Military Police led the way on their Harley Davidsons, followed by two magnificent American convertibles. In the front car, who should I see but Hoenholtz, sporting an Indonesian Navy uniform. From the badge on his immaculate khaki jacket, I could see that he had the rank of commodore. Running at full speed, I followed the autocade and saw it halt in the grand garden of the former residence of Rear Admiral Koenraad. The front steps were bustling with officers from the Indonesian armed forces, all of them quartermasters. As the Dutch forces were gradually withdrawing and preparing to leave this beautiful country, every gap they left behind was being filled by the Indonesian military.

  My old school pals

  31 August 1949: a date I will never forget. Even with the Dutch on their way out, Queen Wilhelmina’s birthday was cause for celebration. On Simpang, the governor and assorted dignitaries lined up to take the salute at a military parade. In addition to the Dutch armed forces, a number of Indonesian units joined in as a show of reconciliation between the two sides. This robbed me of any desire to celebrate. It was almost noon by the time the troops marched past the seats of honour. First came the Marines, immediately followed by the Navy and a whole series of Army units. Then came the various branches of the KNIL, followed by units from the Indonesian Army and Navy. As the enemy forces went by, I stared in amazement at the modern firearms on show, the spoils of smuggling. The sight of those pelopors on parade left a bitter taste and my blood began to boil. It was ludicrous: many of the Indonesian soldiers marching past had no shoes, yet they were armed with better bazookas and mortars than the Dutch Marines. I cursed the lot of them.

  *

  Once the parade was over, I took a becak through some of the city’s shadiest downtown neighbourhoods. There I met some of my old Indonesian pals from Queen Emma School – Soekaton, Soedjono, Soetjipto and Soemarsono – every one of them dressed in Indonesian Army or Navy uniforms. They embraced me and we went to a Javanese cafeteria to sit, eat and talk.

  Radèn Soekaton said to me, ‘Arto, we are now free to wear our uniforms and carry weapons. Soon we will have our Merdeka and colonial rule will be gone for good. We could not be happier, yet we see great sorrow in your eyes. Why, Arto? You too are a child of this country. We have been comrades ever since our schooldays. Remember all the mischief we got up to? How we resisted the Japs? Yet when our revolution came, you fought on the side of the Dutch. We believe you were wrong, but you are still one of us. To us, you will always be a friend, a brother even. Arto, now that you are no longer in service, what’s to stop you from joining our side?’

  I gave him a pitying look and sighed. ‘Sorry Soekaton, but I hate your armed forces. I despise their cruel and inhumane attacks on innocent civilians. The way they carved up the bodies of soldiers. You should not forget the horrific massacres committed by countless freedom fighters when President Sukarno proclaimed your Merdeka. I saw them with my own eyes.’

  My words left everyone silent. I could see that my Indonesian friends were struggling to reconcile themselves to these facts.

  ‘But Nolan, Arto,’ Soetjipto tried to excuse himself, ‘in every revolution, in every war, innocent lives are lost. Those sacrifices have been made throughout human history. You know that.’

  ‘I agree. But the way our innocent civilians met their fate can only be condemned. Standing someone against a wall and shooting them, I can understand. But to rape them first, to kill them slowly, then hack them to pieces and feed them to the crocodiles – what kind of barbarism is that? To bury someone alive? These things are beyond me. Surely you understand that?’

  ‘Come on boys, my brothers,’ Soemarsono intervened, ‘let us talk of brighter things. The war is over now. We should do our best to forget this cruelty.’

  I had no desire to dwell on those atrocities either. Once again, the company of my old pals left me torn inside.

  Blacklisted

  Government talks in both the Indies and the Netherlands were not going smoothly, but all the signs suggested that the Netherlands would soon be forced to capitulate, not least due t
o pressure from the United States. Before long, the Dutch East Indies would cease to exist and the Republic of Indonesia would be born. Our armed forces would be compelled to relinquish all the territory they had captured and hand it over to the Indonesian Army, withdraw to the major ports in the Archipelago and sail for home.

  I was at home with Mama one afternoon when a telegram arrived from Piet Dikotta:

  Drinks this evening at my home.

  Old friend wants to see you.

  I knew what such a telegram meant. At least, I thought I did. That evening, I rang Piet Dikotta’s doorbell. His wife welcomed me in and escorted me to her husband’s private study. Who should be sitting there but Captain Veenhuizen of the Marine Corps.

  Captain Veenhuizen stood up and greeted me. ‘Good to see you, Nolan. You are one tough soldier. How the devil are you?’

  I shook his hand. ‘I am reasonably well, only I miss my time in service. I long to be a marine again and to continue the fight.’

  ‘Well, Nolan,’ Captain Veenhuizen answered, ‘you will soon be a marine again. But not with the aim of fighting on…’

  ‘All in due course,’ Piet Dikotta interrupted. ‘First, let’s enjoy a drink together. Whisky for you, Arto?’

  His wife filled our glasses.

  ‘And so to business,’ Captain Veenhuizen said.

  Piet Dikotta got to his feet, opened his safe and removed a document. ‘Here, Arto,’ he said. ‘Read this carefully.’

  It was a routine order with a list of names attached. It bore the stamp of the Indonesian Army’s notorious high command and was signed by President Sukarno himself. Among other things, the document stated that everyone on the list was a wanted man and was to be killed. The first name listed was Piet Dikotta’s. The second was mine.

  ‘Let the Staf Satoe send their death squads,’ I said. ‘Give me weapons and I will shoot them down. It is high time I became a marine again, Captain Veenhuizen.’ I turned to Piet Dikotta. ‘How did you come by this blacklist?’

  ‘It was given to me by a reliable Indonesian informer with a grave warning that everyone on it should fear for their lives. Arto, I should also warn you that your Timorese friend Jan Abas has defected to the Indonesian Army. Watch out for that traitor – I have a nasty feeling that he is gunning for you.’

  ‘That comes as no surprise.’

  ‘Listen here, Nolan,’ Captain Veenhuizen continued, ‘you have an outstanding service record with the Marine Brigade Security Service. You have given your all for Queen and Country, and have done so of your own free will. The Dutch Royal Navy is duty-bound to ensure your safety. I am giving you forty-eight hours to talk things over with your mother and the rest of your family, and then to decide where you want to make a life for yourself. You have no choice but to leave this country along with the rest of the Dutch armed forces. We can give you passage to the Netherlands or to New Guinea. I have the authority to place you under military discipline. From this moment on, you are once again a marine. It is late now, but you can report to the quartermaster at Willemsoord Barracks in the morning and pick up your full kit. In the meantime I will arrange a decent, quiet place for you at barracks. Send me word of your decision, tomorrow if possible. Agreed?’

  ‘Captain Veenhuizen, along with my sister Ella and half-sister Poppy, it is my duty to look after my old mother. It will be very hard for me to abandon her. But I have taken your warning and Piet’s words very much to heart. I will give you my decision tomorrow.’

  Unarmed, I had an uneasy becak ride home. As soon as I arrived, I discussed the situation with Mama, Ella and Poppy. All of the women in the house burst into tears, including the babus. It was only then that I felt their love for me, but it was too late. Mama regained her composure and said, ‘Go to Holland. In that distant land you can study and build a decent future for yourself. What is there for you to learn in the jungles of New Guinea?’

  ‘But Mama,’ I protested, ‘I can stay here and join the APRA militia. I can carry on the fight against the Indonesian Army. I have many friends willing to join me in the struggle against Sukarno and his savages. The main thing is to be close to you, to help you out with food and money.’

  ‘Arto,’ Mama said, ‘I do not doubt how much you love me and the others. I will miss you, of course I will, but it is better for you to live in safety far away than to be near me and at risk of being killed at any moment. I know that a number of your friends have betrayed you and want you dead. Listen to you mother, Arto. Pack your things tonight and take a dokar to your barracks early in the morning. God will bless you and protect you.’

  That night I packed my things. Of the few books I owned, I took only my school textbooks. My spoils of war, consisting of two samurai swords, a kris and a .38 calibre Smith & Wesson revolver, I tucked away carefully in my trunk. Worry kept me from sleep and, knowing I might never see my mother again, my heart bled for her and tears welled up in my eyes. I prayed to God but no answer came. All my childhood memories ran through my mind like a film. My harsh but beautiful life under the tropical sun was over.

  The next morning, Babu Tenie hailed a dokar for me. With a heavy heart, I loaded my meagre possessions. I kissed my mother’s cheeks and told her to be brave. Then I climbed aboard and headed for Willemsoord Barracks.

  *

  The barracks was in fact an extended complex of houses that had once been commandeered by the Dutch. Arriving at the barrier, I unloaded my things and paid the dokar driver. A couple of willing marines helped me carry my baggage to the third house in the complex.

  My abode was an empty kitchen with a metal-framed bunk bed and a couple of chairs. The kitchen counter served as a writing table. This would be home until I could board a ship to the Netherlands.

  Having settled in, I reported to the office of Captain Veenhuizen of the Marine Corps. ‘Captain, I have discussed this matter at length with my mother, my sister and other family members without compromising any military secrets. My mother has urged me to go to the Netherlands because there I will have the opportunity to study and build a prosperous future.’

  ‘Very well, Nolan,’ Captain Veenhuizen answered, ‘I will have the necessary papers and documentation drawn up. You are once again a marine, under military discipline. We have need of your counterintelligence reports and you will resume your close collaboration with Piet Dikotta. Go to the quartermaster and collect your full kit. Aside from that, you will be expected to perform your regular duties in the mess. After work you are to remain here on standby, awaiting orders. Dismissed!’

  When I was not hard at work in my office, I found myself battling conflicting emotions. My sorrow at the prospect of being forever separated from my loved ones ran deep, yet now I could live in hope of a new life in the peaceful country for which I had sacrificed so much. Exhausted by the bloodshed, pain and misery I had endured – the torture, the betrayal, the landmines, my fall into the ravine, the whole sorry tale – all I wanted now was rest.

  I had bought myself a rudimentary bicycle on the black market – no headlight or taillight – and regularly cycled down to the docks to see the men embarking on the voyage home. As I stood on the quayside, watching the Dutch soldiers waving to the crowds as they filed aboard to the accompaniment of a military band, I felt angry and sad by turns. And then there were the pregnant Indo girls, crying and waving, calling out to the soldiers: ‘When will you come back? When will we be married?’

  After a few days at Willemsoord Barracks, I cycled back to my mother’s house one evening. Mama was standing on the porch, waiting for me. There were tears in her eyes. Her whole body trembled as she told me, ‘Jan Abas and four of his cronies came calling a few days ago, waving their guns around. They are looking for you. They want to kill you! I told Jan Abas that you had left for Holland weeks ago and called him a coward for pointing the barrel of his gun at an old woman. I ordered him to shoot me on the spot, but he was ashamed and he and his henchmen left. What do you plan to do, now you know this about Jan Abas?’
<
br />   ‘That’s simple, Mama,’ I answered. ‘I am going to hunt him down, him and his friends.’

  ‘Arto, Arto,’ Mama sighed, ‘when will your killing end? I have come to fear you.’

  Evacuation

  A few days later I received another call from Piet Dikotta. I went to see him that same evening and he sent me directly to the home of First Lieutenant Knegtmans of the Marine Corps, a few streets away from Willemsoord Barracks. I reported there and was given a sensitive and highly dangerous mission.

  ‘Nolan, I have summoned you here because you are Surabayan born and bred and know this city like the back of your hand. Your job will be to save as many former interpreters as possible and bring them and their families to Willemsoord Barracks. I will supply you with a full list of those who live in and around Surabaya. Their lives are in danger and they must be brought in as soon as possible for their own safety. This rescue operation cannot be done on a large scale or it will lead to unrest. But it needs to happen fast. I will give you money for transport and other expenses. Use your initiative.’

  ‘I will, Lieutenant,’ I answered, ‘but I must have an M1 with sufficient ammunition and a number of hand grenades.’

  ‘First thing tomorrow, I will contact the quartermaster with orders to supply you with whatever you think you might need,’ Lieutenant Knegtmans concluded.

  In every corner of Surabaya’s bustling city centre, the mood had turned violently anti-Belanda. Inside the barracks complex, every possible provision was being made to accommodate those in danger. Large army tents were even being set up here and there, a number already occupied by former interpreters who had managed to flee with their families. No sooner had they fled than their homes were ransacked. There was a power vacuum in the city. Law and order had completely broken down. Police officers were still on the streets but, other than directing traffic, they barely lifted a finger. Some flirted openly with loose women. The conduct of these native officers made me sick to my stomach.