He walked with me from the office to the entrance of the prison. Before the guards closed the massive prison doors he said, “Matsuda is not such a common name. The other Matsuda on duty,” and here he looked me in the eye, “the other Matsuda happens to be my younger brother. I am truly sorry that I could not assist you. I would hate to lose my brother.”
I bowed to him and said,
“Domo arigato gozaimasu,
Matsuda-san.”
He did not bow to me but held out his hand. “If you can learn to bow like us, then maybe I can learn to shake hands like you
gai-jin?”
I shook his hand.
* * *
Isabel ran out to the veranda when I returned. “They’ve both been sent to work on the railway in Burma. I’m sorry,” I said.
She swayed slightly and then found her balance. I held out my arms to her but she never moved. “Your Japanese friends,” she said. “What harm could Peter and Edward do to them?” My arms dropped down, empty, and she walked away from me.
“I know you tried your damnedest,” my father said when he returned from the office where he had been working with the representatives of the Japanese military. “I only hope she’ll forgive you.” He stood for a moment, then decided he had nothing more to say to me and went into his room.
I wondered if I really had tried my hardest, and what more was required of me. I decided to visit Endo-san.
He was glad when he saw me dragging my boat up from the eager waves. “I have missed you,” he said. “Was Saotome-san of assistance?”
“No, he wasn’t.” Saotome’s words returned to me—
he is myself not so long ago
—as I studied Endo-san’s face. Would Endo-san eventually turn into him? Cultured, refined, and yet with a streak of coldness fanning out into tiny veins that would eventually spread though him entirely?
“But still you managed to find out some news. My personal seal was helpful?” he said, knowing me too well.
“Yes. They’ve been sent to build the railways.”
His breath hissed in. “I am sorry.”
“You knew about Saotome-san’s . . . predilections?”
“Yes.”
“You knew, and still sent me there, to him?”
“I know you are strong. That is why I was glad your sister did not go with you. If he could not have you he would have wanted her. And of her strength I know nothing.”
“He said he was like you, once. And that you’ll be like him, in time.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think you want me to prevent that from happening.”
“You are growing up at last.”
I felt the exhaustion of my journey back from Kuala Lumpur overwhelm me. The memory of the look on my father’s face when we spoke was more than I could bear. “May I spend the night here?” I asked.
“Of course. Come, let us go and make dinner. I have much work to do tonight. Hiroshi-san’s absences from work have been more frequent.”
“How is he?”
“Worsening. I have advised him to request a transfer home but he refuses.”
“Perhaps he should recuperate at the house up on Penang Hill,” I said, before I could think.
Endo-san looked at me closely. “The house on The Hill? Yes, that is a fine idea.”
We walked up the gentle beach toward the light that came from his house through the shifting gaps of the trees as, behind us, the day departed.
Chapter Six
Things soon settled down within a few months of the Japanese victory over Malaya, like sediment sinking to the depths of a pond. We lived in a constant fear that wrapped itself around us, until we became unaware of it. Some days something would happen, like a stick stirring the bottom of the pond and we would again be roused, agitated, the fear sharper for having been blunted for a while.
I traveled to work every day with Endo-san and his military chauffeur. And every day my father watched in grim silence as the black Daimler that was once his came to pick me up. Isabel refused to speak to me and the remaining servants ignored me. Never had I felt so isolated. It was only at the Japanese headquarters that I felt almost at home. The people there were considerably friendlier than my own family.
I was given a small desk next to Endo-san’s office. There were still remnants of the furniture and memorabilia left by the resident councillor. A portrait of Emperor Hirohito stared down at me while I perused documents and reports.
My work was clerical, compiling documents and drafting replies to various military and civil officials around the country. I translated the constant instructions that came from Singapore: schools were to be reopened and all classes conducted in Japanese; everyone had to bow to the Japanese flag and to learn to sing the
Kimigayo
at work and at the schools before the commencement of each day’s activities. I had to translate notices of beheadings as well, which angered and distressed me. These notices were posted at various public places in Georgetown. My name appeared at the bottom of all translated documents. I wondered how many were in my position across Malaya, growing notorious as
jau-kow,
running dogs.
After work I trained with Endo-san or, if he was busy, with the military staff. Goro, the officer who had called me a half-breed, avoided me, but in the pine-floored
dojo
I watched him spar with the other officials. He was brutal and quick, his moves vicious and designed to kill. I made a considerable effort not to train at the same time as he did.
Hiroshi, on one of his better days, called for the attendance of the business and community leaders of Penang and informed them that Saotome had sent out an order from Kuala Lumpur that the Chinese businessmen from each state had to provide fifty million Straits dollars to the government.
“But that is ridiculous,” Towkay Yeap said. “We do not have that kind of money.” There were murmurs of agreement from the rest.
“This is to show your loyalty to the emperor. We still hear reports that there are anti-Japanese elements trying to cause damage to us. Fujihara-san has obtained such information,” Hirsohi said, coughing softly, referring to the short, quiet man who headed the Kempeitai. Fujihara was a dour man with sharp eyes and a thin mouth shaded by the one-inch moustache so favored by the Japanese Ultra-Nationalists. I tried to have nothing to do with him, knowing he would not have forgotten the day when Goro brought him to Istana and my sister shot at them. Endo-san had assured me that Istana would not be requisitioned but I did not want to give the Japanese secret police any reason at all to confiscate our home.
The Kempeitai was notorious and I had no wish to know how many innocent people had been dragged from their beds in the night, identified by their masked accusers, never to be seen again by their family. Such were the things that stirred the sediment of our existence.
The Chinese businessmen left the meeting and I felt their loathing of me. In their eyes I was still Chinese enough and I was no better than a stray dog scrounging for scraps.
I became aware of Fujihara’s quiet approach to me as I was leaving the meeting room. I felt myself tense up, wondering what he wanted.
“You are a resourceful boy, Philip-san.” From the way he said it, I knew he wanted me to be certain that the Kempeitai had a file on me. “I would like you to do something for me.”
“I shall be glad to, if it’s within my abilities,” I said.
“I want a piano for my house. A good one, the best one you can find,” he said. “Get it from the people. Inform them that this is an order from me.”
He had me write down the address of the house he had requisitioned. I knew it well. It was owned by the Thornton family, and I had heard that they had elected to stay and not evacuate.
“What happened to the people who lived in the house?” I asked.
Fujihara smiled at me and I tried not to shiver. “You and your family are fortunate that I have found another place more to my liking.” He walked out of the room and said over his shoulder, “Get me the piano. Goro, my assistant, will help you. You have a week to find it.”
* * *
I discussed the matter with my father and told Goro that we would be willing to surrender our own piano to Fujihara. The piano in our house was a Schumann, a small grand appropriate for a parlor; it had originally been purchased for Isabel, who had lost interest in playing it years ago. The Schumann was a popular choice in Penang due to its suitability to the climate. My father was initially unwilling to relinquish it—he was still angry at my decision to work for the Japanese—but I knew that his strong sense of doing the right thing would demand that a sacrifice come from our family and not another.
Fujihara, when informed of my offer, declined politely, saying he found that particular make to be of inferior quality. I had no alternative but to recall the names of the families I had known that owned pianos and to send out letters requesting appointments to view them.
Once again I was aware that the intention was to exhibit me to the people, showing them how the Japanese had succeeded in bringing the son of a well-known family over to their side.
Our visits to these homes were understandably much feared and, although I attempted to make them as brief and businesslike as I could, more often than not I failed. I was always accompanied by Goro, who seemed to enjoy the whole proceedings. He surprised me by trying out each piano we saw, performing with a skill that even I could tell was more than competent, a skill greatly belied by the calluses on his hands and the lack of any expression on his face when he played. It made for a grotesque scene, the Japanese officer playing the piano, with me standing mutely at his side, surrounded by the frightened and resentful members of the household, who were not allowed to sit but instead had been ordered to stand and watch. It made me think of the play I had seen, with my grandfather in the town square of Ipoh, that was performed for the hungry ghosts. I felt that Goro was playing for an audience of unseen visitors whose malign presence I could almost sense.
Goro went through the same routine at all of the houses we visited. He would stride in and demand to be taken to the piano. Then for half an hour he would sit and play the same monotonous pieces over and over again. Finally, at the fourteenth house on my list, I was sufficiently irritated to ask, “Can’t you play something else?”
He stopped playing, genuinely affronted. He shifted in his seat and placed his hands on his lap. “Fujihara-san is of the opinion that
Das Wohltemperierte Klavier
consists of some of the greatest pieces of music ever created, and I agree with him. The “Prälud-ium und Fuge”—especially the two pairs from
Book One,
which I always choose to play—are what he likes best and what he often plays. How can I know if this is the best instrument for him if I do not appraise it by using the music he would wish to play?” I was taken aback by his sentiment and his fluent German. “You of all people should know that we are not merely a nation of uncultured savages,” he said.
I interpreted Goro’s statement about Bach’s music to the owner of the house, a middle-aged Chinese man. Although he seemed to be living alone, I could sense within his house the presence of the womenfolk he had undoubtedly hidden when he saw us approaching—I always made a point of announcing our arrival at the various houses as loudly as I could. We were in the sitting room on the ground floor and, as Goro began playing again, I lifted my head casually to the ceiling, which, as in so many of the houses we had seen, was made of wooden planking. My eyes swept the expanse of the ceiling and I thought I saw an eye peering through a knothole. I stared at it for a moment and the owner noticed. He spoke to distract me. “The Japanese officer is wise and correct,” he said, his tone ingratiating. “The music of Bach is indeed sublime.”
“I did not ask for your opinion,” Goro replied in English. He
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turned back to the piano and played a new piece, only this time he announced fluently in German, as though to emphasize to me once more his people’s refinement, “Präludium und Fuge VI d-moll BMV 875.”
I ignored him and looked straight ahead, putting my mind in my usual meditative spot, but the drilling of the music made it difficult. There came a startling silence and I brought myself back to the present. I felt the beginning of an intimation of dread, for Goro had never paused halfway through his playing before.
“We shall take this,” he said, and stood up. He stroked the piano. “It is the best I have heard.” He pointed to me and then to the owner. “Tell him. I do not feel like dirtying my tongue with more English today.”
“It’s a Bechstein,” the owner said when I interpreted Goro’s intention to take the instrument. “No one else on this island has one.”
“Who has played on it before?” Goro asked.
“My granddaughter. She, too, loved the music of Bach.”
“I felt the familiarity of the keys with the great composer’s music. It is slightly out of tune, however,” Goro said, a frown curving like a sickle on his face. “You have not respected it by giving it proper care.”
