by Rory Marron
Several of the officers laughed. Chrishaw’s eyes flashed in amusement. ‘I’m glad you said that! Perhaps I should send him one of my cravats?’
Meg shook her head smiling at him warmly. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. Try him with a tie first!’
Chrishaw chuckled but was already looking past her and extending his arm to shake hands with a short, dapper Indian man in a high, round-necked Nehru jacket and plain, round-rimmed metal-framed glasses.
‘Good evening, Mr Panjabi,’ said Chrishaw. ‘What excellent timing! I don’t believe you know Meg Graham, the war correspondent?’
Meg turned expectantly, sensing something in Chrishaw’s tone.
‘Miss Graham…’ continued Chrishaw, ‘meet Mr Panjabi, a businessman of these parts, who also happens to be Mr Nehru’s eyes and ears in Java.’
Meg was suddenly very alert. Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru was president of the Indian National Congress and was expected to be the first prime minister of independent India. The British had recently released him from prison for the ninth time.
Panjabi shook Meg’s hand. ‘Delighted! You must ignore the General, Miss Graham. I have no idea why he should think I am involved in Indian politics in any way. I am merely an overworked entrepreneur.’
There was genuine humour in Panjabi’s eyes. Meg warmed to him immediately. Chrishaw started to introduce his officers to Panjabi, so Meg moved away, collecting a gin and tonic from a busy waiter and chose a vantage point by a large marble fireplace. Above it, a rectangular patch of lighter wallpaper served to remind the guests that the Dutch royal portrait, taken down and destroyed by the Japanese, had not been replaced. There were several other bare patches. British, Dutch and Indonesian flags had been placed in three corners of the hall by the hotel’s temporary new management.
Meg watched the guests closely. Despite the frequent clinking of glasses, there was a distinctly frosty atmosphere. The British had decided to invite Dutch and Indonesian officials, with the result that the evening was ruined for both sides. They stood in two groups at each end of the hall in splendid diplomatic isolation. British and British-Indian officers were buzzing between them trying to break the ice but without any success.
She leaned back against the pleasantly cool marble and listened to a chirpy waltz being played by a group of rather tired-looking Dutch musicians tucked away on a corner podium. Only four couples, all of them Dutch, were dancing. She noticed an extremely handsome Sikh officer approach a group of Dutch girls and invite one of them to dance. Blushing deeply under the stern gaze of her friends the girl refused and turned her back. Meg felt a surge of annoyance and was thinking about asking the Sikh for a dance when she saw Panjabi standing alone between the Dutch and Indonesian groups, looking rather ill at ease. She caught his eye and smiled. He came over to her gratefully. ‘Thank you for the safe-haven, Miss Graham. “No man’s land” is such a lonely place!’
‘Or maybe it’s any port in a storm?’
‘Good gracious me no! Not in your case, I assure you! We are, after all, both neutrals in this dispute.’
Meg feigned surprise. ‘I can’t believe India, about to become independent, is not championing a free Indonesia.’ She pointed to the patch on the wall. ‘When the Imperial portraits do come down in Delhi you’ll have the same interior decoration problem.’
Panjabi laughed then smiled thoughtfully. ‘Ah, but we will still have our rajahs, just as the Indonesians have their sultans.’
‘Hmm. Same frame, different portrait?’
He was eyeing her studiously. ‘Do you really wish to debate the relevance of monarchy in our post-war world?’
Meg shook her head smiling. ‘No I don’t.’ She wanted to talk politics. ‘So future Prime Minister Nehru doesn’t trust the British to look after his soldiers in Java? Is that it?’
Panjabi’s was suddenly serious. ‘On the contrary, I’m sure Mr Nehru has immense faith in the British Army… It’s the British politicians who worry him—so I have heard.’
Meg pressed further; wondering just how close Panjabi was to Nehru. ‘Some American papers argue the British are using Indian soldiers to do their own and Dutch dirty work. Is that the view in India; one colonial power helping out another in suppressing a native population?’
Panjabi smiled. ‘It is true that some influential individuals are calling for the return of our soldiers on religious and political grounds. I—’
A sepoy waiter came by them carrying a tray of drinks. They both took a refill. Panjabi nodded after the sepoy. ‘One of the oppressed, perhaps?’
‘That’s how it looks to Uncle Sam. Don’t you object?’
He shook his head, tut-tutting. ‘Let me tell you why the sepoys are waiting on. None of the Javanese hotel staff would agree to serve the Dutch. And none of the Dutch would acknowledge Indonesian management of the hotel. General Chrishaw was about to cancel the party when the Mahrattas volunteered their services because they did not want their General to lose face! Of course they might also get a “souvenir”—in officially worthless but still useable Japanese rupiahs—for their pains.’
‘I see,’ Meg nodded. ‘Still, I don’t know. White officers, coloured troops. It screams “discrimination” to me.’
‘And what of the American coloured regiments, Miss Graham? The prohibition on coloured men becoming officers?’
She closed her eyes. ‘Touché! It’s not something we should be proud about, nor the British…’
Panjabi shook his head. ‘Miss Graham, forgive me but I don’t think you know much about the Indian Army.’ He took another sip of his drink. ‘In India the British do not discriminate by colour or creed. Look at it this way. To them my country is rather like a gentlemen’s club. Some of the members are coloured. Some non-members are white… Both whites and coloureds seek membership. Yet both can get “black-balled”—no pun intended. Does that help?’ He laughed. ‘It’s rather complicated!’
Meg shrugged. ‘It goes against our constitution, our ideas of equality and rights.’
‘Hmm,’ Panjabi was unimpressed. ‘I have two stories for you. In 1943, the top commanders of the Indian Army were invited to Washington for a policy conference.’ He raised a finger for emphasis. ‘Remember, this is during the midst of the Japanese advance when Indian military assistance was crucial to the Allied war effort and when Indian troops were needed for the liberation of Europe. What happened when the Indian generals arrived in Washington, some eighty years after the abolition of slavery in your country?’
Meg frowned, anticipating more embarrassment.
Panjabi merely smiled. ‘The hotel which had taken the reservations from the Pentagon refused to admit them! Eventually they found rooms at a military club.’
Meg sighed. ‘Oh, dear! I—’
‘Unfortunately there is more,’ Panjabi added quickly. ‘When they went out for dinner with American officers five restaurants refused to serve them! That does not happen in London at the Ritz or the Savoy!’
She grimaced. ‘That doesn’t make us look good, does it?’
‘No, but you really shouldn’t worry about it. Most Indians certainly don’t. You should know that no-one is more discriminatory against Indians than other Indians! It’s perfectly true. Have you not heard of our caste system? If you are born Dalit—“Untouchable”—may Lord Shiva help you.’
‘I’ll remember that. Thank you,’ Meg nodded thoughtfully. ‘You said you had two stories?’
‘Oh, yes! A British officer told me this just the other day. In 1941, at the battle of Keren in Abyssinia there was a tremendous fight by some Mahratta’s and a Scottish regiment to take an Italian position on a ridge. As you will know, it is terribly dry and hot there, and the Mahrattas assumed that they would be more or less babysitting the Scotsmen. Well, the battle was won and the Mahrattas reached the ridge but among the dead Italians they found several dead Scotsmen. Clearly the Mahrattas were not the first there! Afterwards the British and Indians patrolled together with their little fingers linked in a “chain”
of friendship and respect. Rather “touching”, don’t you think? It’s a pity the story isn’t more widely known… When the British leave India I like to hope we will still be linking our little fingers!’
Meg felt chastened. ‘My apologies, sometimes we journalists think we know it all.’
Panjabi shrugged and surveyed the hall. ‘Look carefully at what is happening here in Java, Miss Graham. Like will find like everywhere. Tonight, outside, British privates and Indian sepoys are sharing pots of tea and those awful compo rations. Already those same fellows are trading and playing games of cricket, soccer or hockey among themselves or with the natives, as well as chasing the Javanese girls! In here, we see their officers hobnobbing with diehard Dutch colonialists who speak as if the yellow fellows had never humbled the white empires. Listen to them! They talk of polo, weekend shoots on estates, summer retreats in the hills and, most of all, how coloured people—Indians and Indonesians alike—are not ready for self rule. You could certainly be forgiven for thinking they have learned nothing.’
‘So you think the ranks are sympathetic to the Indonesian cause but their officers are pro-Dutch? That’s a recipe for disaster.’
Panjabi scratched his chin in thought. ‘Or mutiny…I think that the British need to play their hand very carefully. General Chrishaw was a good choice but alas the Dutch already have their knives out for him.’
Meg nodded. ‘So I’ve heard.’
A shout interrupted them. ‘Panjabi-tuan, please join us!’
They turned to see a small group of Indonesians waving cheerfully. Panjabi raised a hand then turned to Meg. ‘You must excuse me, business calls. I am in the market for rice. Hundreds of tons of the stuff! I hope we can talk again. Perhaps a dance later or even lunch?’
‘I’d love too!’
Panjabi excused himself and with regret Meg watched him join the Indonesians. As she was waiting for a waiter to replenish her glass she saw Chrishaw greeting Jarisha. She waited for a reaction and saw a junior NICA officer was already informing Van Zanten of Jarisha’s arrival. He barely nodded and continued his conversation whereas others turned to look. Admiral Hurwitz, true to form, managed a scowl.
Meg tried to mingle but no-one was as interesting as Panjabi. Secretly bored, she listened to snatches of conversations and decided he was right. The Dutch were behaving as if nothing had changed since 1941.
On a whim she went in search of the rejected Sikh officer and danced with him and his delighted friends for almost thirty minutes. The Sikhs were good company and excellent dancers. Meg thoroughly enjoyed herself, especially the disapproving looks from some of the reforming Batavia establishment.
Even so, she kept one eye on the main figures, waiting for the inevitable meeting. When she saw Chrishaw deftly bring Jarisha and Van Zanten’s group together in a small group in the middle of the hall, she gave them a couple of minutes to exchange pleasantries then excused herself from the disappointed Sikhs. As she neared the group she read a hint of caution in Chrishaw’s glance.
‘Hello, Dr Jarisha,’ she said warmly.
‘Miss Graham! You look wonderful,’ Jarisha said bowing. ‘I hope you’ll save me a dance?’
‘But of course,’ she replied beaming.
For once Chrishaw seemed surprised. ‘The Senior Allied Commander has priority, Doctor,’ he said jovially. ‘I didn’t realise you and Miss Graham were acquainted.’
‘Oh yes, indeed. I have given her a number of exclusive interviews.’ He and Meg smiled at each other, enjoying the private joke.
The Dutch group exchanged glances. Only Van Zanten remained at ease. ‘I was wondering why your writing is so blatantly anti-Dutch, Miss Graham. You must visit the palace soon. I’m sure your readers would appreciate hearing the other side of the story.’
Meg returned the smile. ‘To tell the truth Dr Van Zanten there is not much interest in Indonesia in the States.’
‘The Netherlands Indies,’ Hurwitz muttered caustically. He was slightly the worse for drink.
Van Zanten ignored him. ‘That may be so but your articles are also read in Europe and even Australia. You should not underestimate your wider influence.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. My motto is “I write what I see”, that’s all,’ Meg said deliberately. ‘Whether it’s people dying from neglect or a people demanding their freedom.’
Hurwitz sneered again. ‘Rabble swept along by traitors!’
Van Zanten shot him an irritated look and asked quickly. ‘Tell me, what have you seen recently that you intend to share with your readers?’
Meg took a sip of her gin and tonic knowing she had drunk too much to be taking on Van Zanten. ‘Oh, maybe I’ll write something about a would-be colonial administration in denial.’
He frowned. ‘Denial?’
Hurwitz and the others were regarding Meg with barely disguised hostility. She ignored them. ‘Yes, after all, you abandoned the Indonesian “baby” in ’42. Now, for better or worse, it’s standing on its own two feet. You can’t put the clock back.’
‘Nonsense!’ Hurwitz said gruffly. ‘It’s nothing more than the left-overs of a collaborationist regime—’
Van Zanten’s voice was suddenly severe. ‘And you know what can happen if a baby tries to run before it can walk, unless the parents are there to catch it?’
Jarisha cleared his throat softly. ‘Perhaps I may speak for this infant? Why is it, Dr Van Zanten, that the Dutch would deny this child the very thing that they themselves celebrated so joyously only in May? I refer, of course, to freedom! As President Sukarno has asked many times: If it was wrong for the Germans to rule the Netherlands why is it acceptable for the Netherlands to rule Indonesia?’
Hurwitz’s face was puce. His voice boomed. ‘You dare compare us to the Nazis!’
Chrishaw rolled his eyes in despair.
Jarisha looked pained. ‘It is such a simple question yet you have no answer!’
‘I’ll answer it with troops and tanks—’
Van Zanten stilled Hurwitz by placing a hand on his forearm. ‘The Admiral needs some fresh air.’ He nodded to a Dutch captain who led the listing Hurwitz away. When he spoke he looked solely at Meg.
‘Mister Sukarno’s premise is false. The Indies are sovereign territory of the Netherlands. Dutch rule is established in international law.’
‘Oh dear!’ Jarisha said holding up his palms. ‘There is one set of rules for white nations and another one for Asians.’
‘I am sorry you see it that way, Dr Jarisha,’ Van Zanten said casually. He turned back to Meg. ‘You also mentioned “neglect” Miss Graham. The Netherlands has hardly neglected her colonies. Industrial investment, transport infrastructure, healthcare provision—’
Meg shook her head. ‘No, I mean the thousands of half-starved, sick women and children still stuck in camps weeks after the end of the war. Women and children, neglected—no, abandoned—by their safe and well-fed countrymen—and I stress the men—who are more interested in flags and military parades.’
Van Zanten looked almost amused. ‘Those former internees are being held hostage, Miss Graham. You should ask Dr Jarisha why his followers will not free them. It is immoral, is it not, to keep women and children in camps just like the Nazis and Japanese?’ He paused looking pleased with himself.
Meg held his gaze. ‘Oh, yes Doctor, I agree it’s immoral. I’ve seen the Dachau death factory and the awful state of the internment camps here on Java. But I also saw another camp opened by the good, free citizens of Nijmegen. It was full of scared, young Dutch women and their babies.’ She looked from one confused Dutch face to another. ‘Surprised, gentlemen? Their crime was to have given birth to babies fathered by Germans.’
Van Zanten stood rigid, his expression studiedly disdainful. His staff stared at her balefully. Meg continued with a shrug. ‘What I am trying to say is that after six years of war there is no moral high ground left. It’s all mud and we’re sinking fast.’
‘An interesting observation,’ V
an Zanten said coldly. ‘Your readers are indeed fortunate. For tonight at least, let us agree to differ.’ He turned to Chrishaw. ‘General, my thanks for a most…instructive…evening.’
If Chrishaw was disappointed he did not show it. ‘My pleasure, Doctor. I hope this will be the first of many face-to-face meetings between Dutch and Indonesian representatives.’
Van Zanten inclined his head dubiously and moved away, ignoring Jarisha but stopping here and there to greet other guests on his way out.
Chrishaw turned and smiled at Meg sarcastically. ‘Well, that was a resounding success wouldn’t you say? Now, Miss Graham, I don’t believe I’ve ever danced with an American journalist before. May I?’
Laughing, Meg took his arm. The mock southern belle accent returned. ‘Why, Gen’rul, I’d be delighted!’
Near Bekassi, Central Java
Several darkly clad figures eased through gaps in the bamboo fence an hour before dawn. Their rubber-soled boots made no sound on the packed earth as they approached the cluster of half-a-dozen living huts and storehouses. Penned livestock—three scrawny water buffalo, and a few goats and chickens—were the only witnesses to their silent progress towards the centre of the hamlet. Nearer their goal, the men fanned out, walking openly, purposefully.
They began their sweep; pausing briefly beside each hut and communicating with quick, precise hand signals. In their wake they left small showers of sparks and bright orange light as the flares spluttered into life. Then the figures turned and formed a line across the path to the well and water trough, and the exit.
The palm-leafed roofs and matting walls of the huts were tinder dry. Shouts of alarm, then screams of panic punctured the night quiet. Men and women, many clutching babies or toddlers, began rushing from doorways, blinking in stunned disbelief at the bright circle of flames that almost surrounded them. Instinctively they moved, the women towards the safety of the path, the men shouting for buckets.
Machine guns blazed until magazines were emptied. Then the second sweep began and the soldiers walked methodically among the moaning mass of twisted, twitching bodies looking for those still living. When they found them, they were finished with point-blank bursts.