by Tan Twan Eng
“Now do you see?” he asked me gently.
“Why was I executed? What did I do?”
“You betrayed the Shogun’s government by providing information to the rebels.”
I did not want to believe what had just happened to me, for to accept it would be to acknowledge that my grandfather had been right when he explained the origin of my name in his house on Armenian Street. But the entire experience had been so real and I was still shaken by the vestigial sorrow within me.
“Through how many lifetimes have we pursued one another? Two? Three?” I asked tentatively.
“Does it matter?”
I shook my head. “All that matters is this life, Endo-san. To have the will to make the right decisions.”
He helped me out of the boat. “It is better that you work for us, you know. I can only protect you if you are useful to Hiroshi-san. It is not that I approve of what the army is doing, but Hiroshi-san is correct—all transitional periods are tumultuous and can only be controlled by a show of strength. If we showed weakness, we would never last long.”
“Would Ueshiba-sensei approve?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Never.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
“It is my duty and my fate. Why, of all the places I have traveled to—China, India, even the foothills of the Himalayas—why did I end up here? Because you are here; because the time has finally come to redress our lives.
“This time,” he said, holding my shoulders firmly, “this time there will be balance and harmony. That is why I have been training you so hard, why I have driven you so harshly. So that you may be a match for me.”
He let go of me. I took a step back and stumbled on the sand. “I will never raise my hand against you, Endo-san.”
“No? Not even if your family is threatened, hurt, even killed? Do not make promises you cannot keep.”
That evening he used his katana against me in his violent ways and I responded in kind. There was so much anger and so much fear, they fueled our movements and our release. He attacked me again and again, pressing into me, sinking into me with such intensity, as though he wanted to imprint a part of him in me, to leave a portion of his soul in mine. My sword received his force with equal hunger and I opened myself up to him as clouds open up to the sun.
Chapter Eight
It was raining, a soft thrumming on the world. From the window I could see Penang Hill and its lower ranges wreathed in a misty shawl. Dark, heavy clouds rolled over the ridges like surf breaking over sea boulders. The bungalows, which could be seen perched on the Hill on clear days, lay submerged beneath the clouds like shells covered by the tide, as though preferring to cut themselves off from the town below, choosing not to acknowledge the presence of the Japanese who by now had been occupying the country for close to three years. I, however, had no such option.
I was in my office when the file was handed to me by a clerk. I had no idea what the words Sook Ching meant. But as I continued reading the report the intent became clear. Hiroshi had received the papers an hour ago. In the background I heard the female clerks talking, and the pecking sounds of typewriters and ringing telephones. Except for the fact that the voices were speaking Japanese, I could have been in the offices of Hutton & Sons, preparing an order for a shipment of rubber.
I felt cold, and it was not due to the endless rain. I read the report again. Under the Sook Ching exercise, Chinese businessmen and villagers suspected of being members of anti-Japanese groups were to be rounded up and sent to labor camps. Every state in Malaya had orders to carry out the exercise. It was the retribution of the Japanese against the strong opposition shown by the local Chinese against the war in China.
Hiroshi entered my room. “Have you read the report? Direct orders from General Yamashita.”
I nodded. He handed me another sheaf of papers. “These are the first batch of names. Copy them and send them to Fujihara-san, please.”
“Yes,” I said, but my mind was already searching for a way to save the people on the list.
I rushed through the day and as soon as I finished I arranged for another meeting with Towkay Yeap. We met as usual on the trawler, although we had to be wary as Japanese naval boats were patrolling the seas.
“These are the names of people who will be arrested by tomorrow.” I recited a list of ten names I had memorized; they were all middle-aged Chinese businessmen. I saw Towkay Yeap recoil at the mention of each one. He was probably on good terms with them. He would wonder when his own turn would arrive, when I would come to him and utter his name.
“All were on the list published by the Straits Times—they petitioned against the Japanese invasion of China,” he realized immediately.
“You have to get them away,” I told him.
“That would put you in danger. Fujihara would know there’s a leak.”
“I have to run that risk,” I said.
“We’ll have to hurt you. That’s the only way,” he said.
I understood. Until now, due to his intervention, I had been relatively safe from assaults and harassment from the anti-Japanese movement. They had orders to stay away from me. That had to change.
“Send your best men,” I said. “Only then will it look believable.”
“Are you that good?” he asked.
“I beat your son once.”
That stopped him short. A look of respect entered his eyes. “Then I shall use my best people. Make sure you do not injure them too seriously.”
Fujihara was more cunning than I was. He moved that very night, but Towkay Yeap had managed to warn three of those on the list and they left the island before the Kempeitai came to drag them away. I saw his fury the following morning, when he came into my room.
“Who did you show the list of names to?” he shouted at me.
“Only you. Why?” I asked, hiding my fear, wondering what had happened.
“Someone had informed them. I lost three on the list. They were gone, their houses empty.”
“You told me you were only conducting the arrests today,” I said.
“Do not ever think you are more intelligent than I am,” he said.
He went out, and I let my despair surface. Only three had escaped. I did not want to know what happened to the others but Fujihara made sure I would find out. He came in again just before noon.
“Come with me,” he said.
I followed him, keeping my face free of any show of emotion, to the Kempeitai headquarters on Penang Road where the Japanese secret police had taken over the south wing of the former police headquarters. We walked up two flights of stairs. Despite the shortages of war I noticed the corridors along the upper floors had been covered with metal grilles. When he saw me looking at them, Fujihara said, “That is to keep our prisoners from jumping off the building. We alone decide when they are to die.”
He led me into a windowless room where there were two Kempeitai officers, both just a few years older than I was, and a man tied to a chair; I recognized him as Wilson Loh, the son of Joseph Loh, a timber merchant and one of the founders of the Aid China Campaign. Wilson Loh had been beaten, his eyes were swollen and blood smeared his mouth and nostrils.
“The prisoner maintains he does not know where his father is,” one of the Kempeitai officers said.
“That is fine, because I wish our friend here to see what happens next,” Fujihara said, looking at me.
They pulled Wilson Loh up and dragged him outside. We followed them down to a square yard in the center. The sun lit up the poles where prisoners were to be beheaded. The shadows of the poles stretched out behind, like a sundial telling the time. My heart beat faster as I tried to center myself, calming myself with the deep breathing methods I had learned from Endo-san.
They laid Wilson Loh on the ground near a water pipe with a hose connected to it. Forcing his mouth open, they inserted the hose and turned on the tap. Wilson jerked as the rush of water overflowed from his mouth. One of the officers
arranged the hose again.
“He was asking for water earlier,” Fujihara said.
We watched as his stomach expanded with water. By now Wilson had stopped struggling and he just lay there. I could see his eyes; they were those of an animal in pain.
“Enough,” Fujihara said. The tap was turned off and one of the officers placed a foot on Wilson’s stomach. He pressed his weight down, and then, holding on to his fellow officer for balance, put his other foot onto Wilson’s stomach and started to jump.
I turned away as the sound of Wilson’s screams mixed with the gurgle of water gushing out from his throat. I looked up, into the cleansing light of the sun, letting its brightness be the only thing I could see.
I was to discover that Fujihara’s ingenuity was endless. He used a variety of methods to torture his prisoners and over the next few months he made sure I was well acquainted with every one. In all those circumstances I held in my anguish, not willing to lose face before him as we stood and witnessed the prolonged deaths. Many of the prisoners were also used as live targets for bayonet practice, Fujihara all the while humming his preferred preludes and fugues under his breath, in his complete enjoyment breaching his own orders to his subordinates for silence. I could even see his fingers twitching as though he were playing his piano. At night the irreplicable sounds of bayonets stabbing into live human flesh, accompanied by his incessant humming, kept me awake. I was unable to close my eyes without seeing the atrocities again.
A week after Wilson Loh’s death, Goro came to see me. “Let’s go,” he said.
“Where to?” I asked. Feeling a rising panic, I had to wipe my hands against my sides. Being summoned by one of the Kempeitai officers was something everyone, even the Japanese staff, avoided.
“Fujihara-san’s orders. Don’t ask questions.”
We drove in a Rolls Royce that had been taken from one of the local Chinese tycoons in exchange for his life. Every now and then Goro would turn around and speak to me. Mostly he ignored me, although he was not impolite. Behind us a military lorry carried twenty soldiers, all armed. We headed past Balik Pulau, the Back of the Island, into the interior, past lush silent forests dripping with early morning rain, as though the trees themselves were weeping. Soon we saw cultivated land. Far ahead I could see the coconut trees of a plantation. And then the belt of green merged with the metallic gray of the rain-beaten sea. From a small hillock we descended into the bowl of the village. A good location for anti-Jap groups, I thought—easy access from the beach, thick jungle all around. There was abundant food here, all grown by the villagers. And then I began to perspire, for the road was familiar; I had traveled on it before. For a few moments I wondered if I were going through a time shift again, such as I had experienced on the boat while rowing to Endo-san’s island. But this did not have the same sense of heightened reality about it; this was the present and this was real.
We swung onto a dirt road, past a group of children playing in the shade of a shanty. They peered out as we passed and I saw the wide-open eyes of a little boy, fascinated by the huge vehicles passing by. He waved to me, but I could not wave back. My hand, my entire body, refused to move, for we soon passed under the simple wooden arch that led into Kampong Dugong, where I had attended Ming’s wedding.
I got out slowly from the car. A vast silence surrounded us when the engines were turned off. Not even the dogs barked. The villagers looked like everyone else. But what was I expecting to see? Ogres, hatching plots to kill all Japanese? Some were old, some my age; all looked apprehensive at this sudden intrusion into their peaceful lives. They appeared thin and malnourished, but, even before the war I had passed people like them every day in the streets. They were the people of the island of Penang and I was one of them. And they knew that. But what did they think of me, this Japanese collaborator? Did they remember me from the wedding?
Goro ordered the headman to appear. He came out from his hut and saw me. I remembered his name—Chua—although I wished I had forgotten it. Behind me the soldiers got down from their lorry, causing the first ripples of fear.
“Get all your people here, now!” Goro shouted. “Tell them,” he said, shoving me forward. I interpreted his orders. Chua bent down to speak to a boy, who ran off. The entire village soon appeared as the soldiers went from house to house, kicking doors open, scattering chickens and dogs. In the crowd I found Ming and she looked disbelieving when she saw me.
Goro began to read from his list in Japanese. I stood, uncertain, until he cleared his throat and looked at me. I repeated after Goro, like a weak echo: “Under orders from General Yamashita, the military commander of Malaya, they are here to arrest those involved in giving assistance to the Malayan People’s Anti-Japanese Army, the MPAJA.”
A man in nondescript clothes climbed down from the lorry, his face covered by a hood. Only his eyes could be seen, staring out of the holes cut into the hood, darting left and right. Goro ordered him into the crowd. He walked slowly and the people parted before him, unwilling to look at him. He touched a man here, a woman there, and the cries and screams began.
I watched the hooded man move toward Ming and her husband, Ah Hock. I looked into her eyes and her hand went to her mouth as she let out a sob, for Ah Hock had been touched. Children began crying as the troops went among the crowd, dragging the chosen men and women out onto the square. The implication was clear; there was no need for me to translate, no need for me to be here at all.
Chua, when he saw that Ah Hock had been selected, broke away from the crowd and rushed up to me. “We have not aided anyone,” he insisted. “Tell them. You cannot take my son away. He has not done anything wrong. No one here has.”
I spoke rapidly to Goro, who shrugged.
“Elder Uncle. Please ...” I pleaded with him. “Give them up, please. You have to protect the rest of your people.”
“Why are you doing this?” he asked. “I remember you. You are Mr. Hutton’s son. You are one of us.”
I found I could not give him an answer.
“What will happen to my son?” Chua asked.
“Prison,” I said.
Perhaps he knew the nature of the Japanese, and of men in war, better than I, despite my close contact with them. He looked at me and said, “I pity your belief.”
Goro pushed him away but I held his arm. “I’m doing all I can,” I said.
He nodded. “Perhaps you are.”
He turned to face the crowd and tipped his head heavily. His people had to trust his decision, for was not his son among the prisoners? A moan went through them as the soldiers shoved the thirty men and women touched by the informer into the lorry.
Ming ran forward, screaming. A soldier slapped her twice and, when she still screamed, raised his rifle to club her. I moved in and shielded her from the blow. “I’m sorry,” I kept saying. She struggled in my arms as she called out to Ah Hock. I turned to look at him, seeing the confusion and bewilderment on his simple round face. He was innocent, a fisherman trying to survive these times, just a random name plucked out by someone in his village who had wanted to get into the Kempeitai’s good books. Ming slapped me and the sting woke me from my stupor. Chua, tears running down his face, came to pull her away but she slapped me once more. I stood there, arms at my sides, as she hit me again and again.
Goro, growing impatient, said, “Take her too.”
I had to say something. “No. Let her be.”
“Since she wants to join her man so desperately, let her.” He gave an order to one of his men.
“You cannot do that. She was not picked out by your man.”
“Who are you to tell me what to do?” He pointed his gun at me, jamming it into my cheek.
I pushed it away, moving into him at the same time. The gun discharged into the trees, taking off fragments of bark. I grasped his wrist, molding it into a kote-gaeshi lock and pointed the gun back into his face.
“Anyone move and I will take his eye out,” I said softly. The Kempeitai offi
cers, who had converged on me, stopped. “Rescind the order,” I snapped. “On your family’s honor, rescind the order now!”
Goro looked at the troops. “Let her go.”
I disarmed him and released him from the wristlock.
“Fujihara-san and Endo-san are going to hear of this,” he whispered, rubbing his hand.
I tried to find something to say to Ming, but failed. The tailgate of the lorry was bolted into place and the lorry started with a rumble, breaking the unnatural silence.
A woman howled, the sound sending the dogs into a barking frenzy. She was held back by her friends. An unshaven prisoner shook his head at her. I led Ming to the lorry, where she reached out her hand for her husband’s. But the height was too great for them to touch and only their eyes could cross that distance.
I got into the car and followed the lorry out of the village into the gentle rain that was starting to fall. Four miles down the road we swung into a clearing surrounded by a grove of trees.
“What is going on?” I asked Goro.
He looked at me, his eyes shining. “I thought you had read the report.”
The guards ordered the prisoners out. One by one they jumped to the ground and I saw their eyes as they passed me. Ah Hock, trying to control his terror, nodded at me in gratitude for saving Ming. A young female prisoner spat at me. When the guards started passing out shovels, I knew what would happen. My legs wanted to give way under me; they felt detached, an unknown part of me.
The prisoners were ordered to dig. Deeper and deeper they went until I could see only the tops of their heads, clods of clay and mud piling up beside them. A few refused to dig further, and were clubbed by the guards. The woman who had spat at me bit her lip and refused to cry out.
Did they know they were digging their own graves? How could they go on? Was it not better to stop and be shot, knowing that a bullet would still end their lives eventually? Was it hope that drove them on, praying that it was just a cruel trick played by the Jipunakui? That at some point the guards would have a good laugh, smoke a few cigarettes, and order them up into the lorry again?