The Persimmon Tree (40 page)

Lieutenant Mori, somewhat taken aback by this unexpected solitary hail to the Emperor, drew to desultory attention and then, turning to the sergeant, indicated that the Dutch flag be lowered. For the first time everyone in the square and beyond could see what was happening and a tremendous roar rose as ten thousand or more tiny Japanese flags were raised and waved above each individual head, like a myriad red-and-white striped butterflies.

The roar increased to an even greater crescendo when the flag carrying the emblem of the rising sun was seen to slowly move up the post and suddenly, to the watching people, three hundred years of oppression ended. The Japanese flag reached its zenith, catching the same river breeze that remained impervious to the change in the colour of bunting it caused to flutter against a cloudless sky.

The Japanese sergeant tied the hoisting rope to its cleat, then turned smartly and called the thirty weary cyclists to attention. Lieutenant Mori, himself at attention, then raised his arm.
‘
Long live His Imperial Majesty!’ ‘
Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!
’ the soldiers all called out in unison. The crowd around the flagpole started to yell ‘
Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!
’ until the entire population gathered in the square and streets beyond were shouting the traditional hail to the Keeper of the Chrysanthemum Throne, His Majesty, the Emperor Hirohito, henceforth to be their glorious leader as well.

Anna even had a brief though silent laugh when the sergeant, at the conclusion of the flag-raising ceremony, turned to salute his officer and in the process took a smart step backwards and, raising his right boot, brought it down to a resounding stamp, stepping squarely on the mayoral top hat and crushing it beyond repair. The newly appointed titular head of the non-existent town council had already lost his crown.

‘Now he has no hat to conceal his empty head,’ Til said quietly.

The Japanese Imperial Army, in all its ragged, hungry, weary, two-wheeled and punctured-tyre glory, had arrived in Tjilatjap.

‘
Allah created sleep so we can lay down our sadness for a little while each night,

otherwise we humans would find the burden of sorrow we carry too heavy to bear.
’

Til

Becak
driver, Tjilatjap

THE SMALL, RAGGED TROOP
of weary Japanese soldiers moved to set up a temporary camp in an open area that was sandwiched between the town square and the river, where they asked that they be brought food and drinking water, these requests being their only attempt to assert themselves. They had come the breadth of the island, a six-day ordeal through jungle and mosquito-infested swamps, bypassing the scattered, ineffectual resistance that they encountered. They had arrived in Tjilatjap hungry and suffering from total exhaustion. The Japanese lines had been stretched almost beyond endurance and these soldiers had been pushed too hard for weeks; they needed rest above anything else and in their present condition weren’t the least bit interested in playing the role of triumphant conqueror.

However, as if by some sort of osmosis, various Javanese functionaries, petty clerks and general factotums to the Dutch administration, and including some of the more self-important townsfolk, suddenly appeared everywhere wearing the white armband with the blood-red dot emblazoned upon it. Ratih was to name them ‘Broken Eggs’, Til’s explanation being that when you cracked the egg’s outside shell the contents within were messy and usually rotten. The expression soon caught on, for although they followed the letter of the law as laid down by the Japanese Imperial Forces, the local population appeared to be quite willing to be scornful of the shortcomings of these opportunists who, for the most part, proved alarmingly incompetent and officious, the officiousness usually applied in liberal helpings to cover up ignorance.

Directly after the flag-changing ceremony, the Broken Eggs were chasing people from the town square, advising anyone who asked — and several who didn’t — that they were henceforth the town committee under the inestimable new mayor, Onishi Tokuma. The mayor, by the way, could wear a different suit to his office every day for a month and still have one to spare, while nobody else on the committee even possessed a jacket. This was not a sign of poverty but a sensible omission in a tropical climate. A little later people would also ask where the ubiquitous armbands had come from in the first instance. Nobody had seen them being made in the marketplace and all the evidence pointed to the Japanese tailor’s shop. The little tailor had secretly sewn the armbands and then appointed himself the mayor, handpicked his cronies and issued them with their Broken Egg identification in anticipation of the arrival of his fellow countrymen and liberators. The first edict delivered by the Mayor of the Squashed Hat, as he soon became known, was that the Japanese soldiers were to be given the benefit of peace and quiet and nobody was to disturb them or enter the square for two days. As the town square was central to all the streets and businesses, this virtually closed down everything in Tjilatjap and brought the town to a near standstill. This first edict was to set the example for many others to come that often left the local people scratching their heads in bewilderment.

Although Onishi Tokuma was Japanese he had lived in Tjilatjap for twenty years and people remembered him not for his nationality but as the obsequious tailor who fawned over the Dutch, fussing over a wedding suit with much bowing and scraping, spraying them with unnecessary and extravagant compliments. He even supplied the boutonnières of a small orchid and lacy fern, their stems wrapped in tight silver foil that was tied in a certain Japanese manner, one each for the bridegroom, his best man, father of the bride and groomsman.

He now explained his fawning manner by saying he was all the while spying for the Japanese, that a tailor hears things that others don’t. It was he who had prepared the soldiers of the Emperor for the ultimate liberation of the town. Furthermore, he maintained that the people of Tjilatjap ought to pay him due homage as a local hero and that his self-appointment as mayor was a logical outcome and just reward for his past covert efforts.

But few people were fooled by his vainglorious justification. If he had indeed played a part, then thirty weary cyclists and a disinterested officer and sergeant on a motorbike with sidecar weren’t exactly the triumphant and glorious liberation the population had expected. In retrospect, despite the fervent flag-waving, street-lining and the cheering the soldiers had received, thirty exhausted soldiers almost amounted to an insult. The people of Tjilatjap felt they deserved a better parade to celebrate the joyous occasion of their liberation from the hated colonials. As far as they were concerned, Onishi Tokuma had been a toady to the Dutch and now he was one to the Japanese.

Sergeant Khamdani, while not refusing, simply neglected to wear the Broken Egg insignia, although most of the Javanese
pak polisi
added them to their uniforms as a matter of course. As the months wore on, people, fed up with the general incompetence of local officials, would point to him in the
kampong
and say, ‘See, there are still some good policemen around. He will give you an opinion that is correct for a change.’

Til returned to the markets to start the delivery of Anna’s household shopping. Kiki accompanied her on the walk home, helping to carry the basket of fruit and vegetables and other ingredients for her papa’s soup. Anna dearly wanted Kiki to enter the house with her but resisted the impulse to ask and when they reached the front gate she turned and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Good luck, Kiki, you had better be off now, you don’t want Mother Ratih scolding you for being late on your first day.’ Kiki left with some reluctance, pleading that she could help make the soup and still be on time at the
kampong
kitchen, but Anna entered the house alone with her heart thumping, not knowing what she might find.

‘Papa?’ she called and waited. But there was no response. She crept as silently as possible across the teak floorboards to the main bedroom where she’d closed the door when she’d left the house earlier. It now stood slightly ajar. Peeping in she could see the vacated bed and the dent in the pillow her father’s head had made. ‘Papa, I’m home!’ she called again. But no response came. She opened the door fully to see he wasn’t there. The pot she’d left for him to piss in rested on the floor beside the bed. She walked in to examine it and observed that it had been used, the sharp smell and deep-brown colour of the urine indicating that he was badly dehydrated — another snippet of knowledge from the Red Cross lessons she’d undertaken at school about the treatment of survivors. ‘Papa!’ she now shouted out boldly. Still no reply came.

Anna brought her hand up to cover her wildly beating heart. What if he’d left the house? Maybe he’d wandered down to the river and fallen in? Or been robbed and beaten up?
For what?
she asked herself, since he had no money.
His pride and joy, his gold Baume and
Mercier Swiss wristwatch!
(Which would have remained unwound
since we left Batavia)
, she irrelevantly thought. He was obvious prey, a stumbling, incoherent Dutchman with a valuable gold watch on his wrist that would act as a magnet to a thief or a gang of street kids, such as the ones who’d found Katerina’s wheelchair.

Anna walked into the second bedroom searching, and then into the kitchen. At first glance he didn’t appear to be there either until she saw that the trapdoor was open. She walked quickly over to it and peered down the wooden steps. It was too dark to see much beyond the bottom step but she could hear her father’s heavy breathing. He’d taken the bait — she had him incarcerated in the cellar! The drying-out process was about to begin. She closed the trapdoor and shot the bolt, then lit the stove and set about preparing a vegetable broth in the hope that he might accept some sustenance when he eventually came around. But for a few crusts of dry bread and a little boiled rice on the boat, he’d eaten nothing since they’d come ashore.

Til arrived an hour later, apologising profusely, and explained that the town square had been closed by that Japanese idiot, him of the crushed top hat, Onishi Tokuma, forcing Til to go the long way around, at least another two kilometres of pedalling along rutted back streets and alleys with squawking chickens scattering in sudden fright, waddling ducks and mangy dogs snapping at his ankles.

Along with other cooking and household utensils the first load contained two enamel chamber-pots, an enamel jug and basin that Anna judged would pass through the small cellar window, and several plates, dishes and mugs of the same material that her father couldn’t break or use as a weapon on himself.

While at the market she’d requested that one of the seamstresses make up six pairs of khaki shorts and flannel singlets and underpants. It had proved impossible to buy anything in her father’s size off the rack. Anna hadn’t the slightest notion how she might go about persuading her father to change his clothes, and was simply hoping that as he sobered up he might feel the need to wash and stay clean. She had no idea what to expect from him and was trying to prepare for every eventuality.

She’d tried to buy aspirin and cough mixture and was told that it wasn’t available even on the Chinese black market. She made a mental note to talk to Budi and see if Lo Wok could help, knowing that if he could, there would be no bargaining and she would be at his mercy. She’d been fortunate enough to procure two large bottles of citronella oil, as the mosquitoes came in swarms from the river at sundown and in the dark cellar they would drive her papa insane. Whether she could make him use it or whether he would try to drink it she didn’t know. She’d also found three jars of sulphur ointment, a bottle of iodine and some salt tablets, though she had no idea whether she would need them.

When she’d been at school, with the impending war they’d all been through a hastily contrived course in treating victims of bombings or survivors brought in from ships that had sunk. It had all been fairly superficial, the idea of the headmistress, Miss de Kok, who was also on the social committee of the local Red Cross. The course had been meant to spice up the curriculum and make her scatty teenage girls more aware of the war. Nobody really believed that the existing medical facilities would break down or medical personnel would go missing or, for that matter, that the Japanese would actually land. After all, Singapore was the impregnable fortress. Java would always be safe from an invasion, even in the unlikely scenario where Singapore fell to the Japanese. The Japanese lines would be stretched too far for them to get an army as far as the Spice Islands. Hence the terms used for the course: ‘Treating victims of bombing or survivors of ships sinking’. It had a nice brave feel to it without being frightening. This never-to-be-taken-too-seriously trauma training was the total extent of Anna’s knowledge and had nothing whatsoever to do with the rehabilitation of an alcoholic.

Piet Van Heerden started to bellow at two in the afternoon and Anna rushed to the back of the house and crept down between the hibiscus bushes to the small window. ‘Papa, I’m here!’ she called.

‘Where am I? What is this? Where are you? It’s dark!’ he shouted.

‘Here by the little window. I’ve made you some nice soup. You must eat, Papa.’

‘Damn you, where am I? Have you put me in prison? Get me out at once!’ Piet Van Heerden shouted, shuffling towards the window. Anna drew back so he couldn’t reach out and grab her. As he emerged out of the dark into the light thrown from the window she could see his ginger-stubbled face was purple with rage.

‘Papa, there is no more alcohol and I can’t buy any, there’s none available.’

‘Get me out! Slut! Whore! Get me out!’

‘No, Papa, only when you’re better; you are safe down there and I will look after you,’ Anna said, trying to pacify her enraged father. Then almost as an afterthought, she added, ‘The Japanese are here and they are taking all the Dutch men into captivity. They are shooting some of them. I must hide you or you will die, Papa!’ Anna spoke in a despairing voice, hoping this hastily contrived lie would control his anger.

Piet Van Heerden had to stoop to look through the window. ‘Japanese? They are here? Where are our troops?’

‘They are not here, Papa. They say we will surrender very soon, even perhaps today. The Japanese flag is flying from the town square, I saw it happen myself.’ Anna was delighted to have thought of this seemingly real excuse to keep her father in the cellar.

Piet Van Heerden’s expression turned from fury to disbelief and then he appeared somewhat contrite. ‘I’m sorry I called you names, bad names, my
lieveling
,’
he said. ‘I was confused, you understand?’

‘
Ja
, Papa, I understand,’ she said, relieved that he appeared to believe her.

‘Anna, you must find me something to drink or I will perish.’

‘Soup, Papa, I have made some nice soup.’

‘A bottle, brandy, Scotch, anything,’ he called plaintively.

‘Papa, I have tried, there is nothing. Even the Chinese, they have nothing, not even a bottle of sherry or schnapps.’

‘Gin!’ he cried. ‘I will drink gin!’ he yelled, as if by omitting it, Anna was saying it was still available.

‘
Nee
, Papa. Gin also, there is none. There is nothing, no alcohol.’

‘The homes, the Dutch, go to the homes, knock on the door, you hear! Offer them anything they want, ten guilders, more!’