by Rory Marron
Like many of the younger women in the camp, Kate dressed native-style with a sarong around her hips and a kembang—a long, narrow strip of batik—wrapped around her chest, leaving her shoulders uncovered. Both of her garments were shabby and frayed.
She was slightly late for her kitchen shift and the other cooks were already in the little courtyard rinsing pails of rice, paring half-rotten vegetables, or scraping tiny pieces of beef and pork off almost bare bones. They worked outside because the school’s ovens did not work. As a last gesture of defiance the retreating Dutch army had blown up Tjandi’s gas mains. The Japanese had seen no reason to restore the supply. Consequently all cooking was done on wood or charcoal fires. Breakfast alone required a small mountain of rice and took almost two hours to prepare.
Chalked on one of the courtyard walls was a faded menu: ‘Restaurant Tjandi as featured in Java the Holiday Paradise. Breakfast: Arjana Watercress Gruel, Lunch: Savoury Corn Royale, Dinner: Spiced Porridge à la Tjandi’. The joke had worn as thin as the gruel for the fare had been unchanged for weeks.
A lithe, dark-haired woman chopping some badly discoloured tripe gave Kate a playful wave. ‘Good afternoon, Kate,’ Juliette Giroux joked sarcastically. Her French accent was very heavy. ‘So glad you could join us today!’
Juliette was twenty-seven and a professional dancer. She had been stranded by the Japanese invasion. Despite her protestations, the all-powerful kenpei police had ignored her Vichy France travel documents and interned her. Once incarcerated, she had accepted her fate stoically and had soon fallen in with the camp routine. Twice a week she helped teach French in the camp school, and her dance classes were very popular. Kate went to them as often as she could.
For the younger women, the well-travelled Juliette was a link to the sophistication of Paris and the glamour of New York. Juliette did her best not to disappoint them. She kept her dark hair short and was never without a wide-brimmed sun hat. As usual, that morning she was wearing two pairs of long earrings, a jewelled black choker and a long pearl necklace. Her necklace was tucked down a skimpy, home-sewn halter-neck top made from a red sports bib scavenged from the school’s gym store. Four inches of pearls dangled over her bare, bronzed midriff. A holed sarong, knotted at her hip, reached only to her knees.
Juliette was not alone in wearing jewellery. Most of the women were draped in a mismatched collection of pendants, necklaces and bracelets. Trust, like everything else in the camp, was in very short supply and they all knew that a hungry child could soon turn a loving mother into a desperate thief. There was a ready market for valuables among the guards and Javanese camp administrators.
Kate mouthed a smiling ‘Sorry’ to Juliette then looked for Mai, the Chinese matriarch who ran the kitchens and who would assign her jobs for the day. As she did so, she saw her friend, Marja Schreurs amidst a cloud of flies, her mouth and nose masked by a handkerchief. On the table in front of Marja were several bloody pigs heads from which she was peeling off strips of cheek. Kate waved and grimaced to her at the same time. Marja merely raised her eyebrows dejectedly.
‘Good morning, Miss Kate.’
Kate turned. ‘Morning, Mai,’ she replied pleasantly.
Mai was middle-aged, bubbly and industrious. Her straw coolie-hat, plain blue-cotton trousers and blouse were offset by spectacular green-jade bangles on each wrist. She spoke almost no Dutch and very little English. Her husband, a former cook for the Netherlands Indies Army, was interned a few miles away.
Before Mai had taken over, families had cooked for themselves on small braziers. Since many of the Dutch women had relied on servants before the war, their efforts had been poor. Firewood had been wasted, food spoiled and badly or wrongly prepared. Worse, it had been unfairly distributed or stolen. Squabbling and fighting had been so frequent that in despair the camp commandant had ordered that all cooking be done communally. Even then, problems had continued with rotas until the day Mai and some of her Chinese and Eurasian friends had marched into the kitchen and evicted all Europeans in what Juliette called the ‘coup de cuisine’. Everyone agreed, some grudgingly, that Mai had worked magic. Immediately the food had tasted better and, incredibly, had seemed more varied. No-one dared ask her where she got the extras but most people presumed that her relations outside the camp were smuggling them. After making her point, Mai had accepted a few of the younger European women back for ‘training’. She ran two kitchens: one for the internees and another for the camp administrators and guards.
Mai pointed to a trestle table set up under an awning in the far corner of the courtyard. A lone Japanese guard stood beside it leaning lazily on his rifle. ‘Today, Japan kitchen, please,’ she said busily.
Kate beamed at Mai. Cooking for the Japanese brought perks. She went over to the awning and bowed courteously to the guard. ‘Ohayo gozaimasu.’—Good morning, she said politely.
The guard raised his head fractionally then studiously ignored her.
Excitedly Kate stepped up to the laden table. Under a muslin cloth lay thick pieces of fresh pork, fish and vegetables as well as salted radishes, noodles and spiced meats from the local kampong or village. There were also coconuts, bananas and papayas. Her mouth watered and her stomach rumbled loudly. She looked at the guard, knowing that if she were careful she could palm a few vegetable slices and bits of meat for her mother. Kate would eat later, openly, in front of the guards who were always afraid of poisoning and insisted the cooks tasted everything first.
Behind her a door-hinge squeaked. She glanced around to see a tousled-haired youth emerge from a storehouse, rolling an empty oil drum over to the fire. Jans van Basten often helped with the heavier chores like scraping off the burnt rice from the bottoms of the drums. In return, he was allowed to eat the scrapings. He wore shorts, klompen on his feet and no shirt. His underdeveloped muscles strained as he half-filled the drum with buckets of water.
At nearly thirteen, Jans was the oldest male in the camp. The day after his next birthday he would be sent to join his father in a men’s camp. Kate knew she would miss the good-looking, cheerful Jans. To her secret embarrassment she often caught herself looking at him. She watched a little jealously as Juliette went over and pinched his biceps. ‘You’re getting stronger, Jans,’ she teased. ‘A real man now!’ Jans flushed but it was obvious the youth was pleased.
As Juliette hefted a sack of rice under her arm, her scanty top slid to one side, fully exposing one of her breasts. Kate’s laugh died in her throat as Juliette made no move to cover up. Instead, Juliette continued to pour the rice into the drum, ignoring Jans, who stared, his face a deep red. Only when the sack was empty did Juliette casually cover herself.
Kate glanced around quickly. Nudity was commonplace in the camp but Juliette’s attitude troubled her. She noticed two older women exchanging disapproving looks. Kate busied herself with her work.
A little later Juliette came by. ‘Make the most of it,’ she joked, ‘see you at the class.’
Kate was left unsettled. Not long after she had joined Juliette’s dance group her mother had warned her not to socialise with ‘the dancer’.
‘But why?’ Kate had complained in dismay. ‘She’s such fun and has been everywhere. She learnt the tango in Argentina!’
‘Enjoy the dancing but don’t become friendly,’ her mother had replied sternly. ‘She’s not a good example.’
It was not until weeks later that Kate discovered the reason for her mother’s dislike of Juliette. Kate had been enjoying a late-night soak in the mandi with some of the other girls. With the bathhouse to themselves they had lolled one to a tub. Conversation had turned, as it often did, from fantasy recipes to clothes, and then to boys.
‘At school I used to be in love with Pete Muiden,’ confessed Anna Veersteeg, lying back in the tub, trying to float. ‘I was so jealous of you, Marja!’
Kate reddened and glanced at Marja, who had affected surprise. Marja was a year older than Kate.
‘Pete?’ Marja shrugged. ‘Oh,
he was all right, I suppose,’ she had said casually, picking at her single long plait of mousy hair. ‘Until we came here and the danseuse got her claws into him.’
‘You mean Juliette?’ Kate said taken aback. ‘What happened?’
Marja looked around with exaggerated caution, hamming the conspirator. ‘Do you really want to know?’
Anticipating scandal the girls had rushed to gather in or around Marja’s tub. She had let their curiosity build. ‘Remember that at first the Japs allowed boys to stay here up to sixteen? Well, they say some of the older women went with them. Juliette was one!’
‘Eh? Surely not!’ Kate exclaimed, her hand over her mouth.
‘Yes, it’s true!’ Anna cut in shrilly. ‘I heard Mother talking about it with Mrs Harwig once. Married women were doing it too. They said boys used to wait outside their huts at night!’
Marja was not to be outdone. ‘That’s not all,’ she hissed. ‘They say Juliette’s still at it with Jans!’
There had been a chorus of indignant gasps as the gossip was devoured. ‘No!’—‘With Jans?’—‘The dirty bitch!’
Rukmini Kuupers was sitting demurely in the tub, arms clasped around her drawn-up shins, her chin on her knees. She had the striking good looks common to the offspring of Europeans and Javanese. Her hazel eyes, honeyed skin and waist-long, raven-dark hair contrasted vividly with the brunettes and blondes around her. 'That must be why the Japs keep sending the older boys away,’ she had sighed.
To the distress of the mothers in the camp, the Japanese had lowered the age limit for males first to fifteen, then fourteen and down to thirteen.
Kate, now more embarrassed than ever, had wondered if the rumours were true. After all, she was fond of Jans herself. But for Juliette to actually….
‘Oh, how could she!’ Lisa Hahn spat the words out.
‘I think I know,’ Rukmini had whispered.
The others gaped. ‘Ruki!’—‘What are you saying?’—‘Oh, shame!’
Rukmini had blushed. ‘No, I mean—I can understand she…’ her voice was soft, almost despairing, ‘…that she doesn’t want to be lonely. I don’t want to…to die a virgin like Lizzy and Emma. Do you?’
Faces had blanched and heads dropped in stunned dismay at their taboo word. Kate had shivered as she thought of their friends who had died only two weeks apart. For several seconds no-one spoke. Then one by one, avoiding each other’s eyes, they had dressed and left separately. But that night and every night since, Kate had asked herself Rukmini’s question….
‘Miss Kate!’ The shout made her jump. ‘Cabbage thick!’ Mai was at her shoulder, correcting her grip on the chopping knife. ‘Cut thin, thin!’
‘Oh, sorry, Mai. I see,’ Kate said guiltily.
Mai pulled a face and gestured to a two-foot high woven bamboo screen leaning against the school wall some thirty yards away. ‘Mrs Larman make bread. Want pee-pee.’
Kate could see Marja’s head and shoulders above the screen. A few feet away a blackened jerry can stood on bricks over a fire tended by Bertha Larman. ‘Again?’ Kate asked lightly.
‘Yaah!’ Mai shuddered. ‘No like bread before. Now never eat bread forever!’
Kate giggled as Marja rose from behind the screen pulling up her shorts. She emerged holding a rusty tin and poured the liquid contents into the jerry can. Bertha waved to Kate then pointed at the tin.
When supplies of yeast had run out even Mai had been unable to obtain the precious ingredient. They had made do with much reduced amounts of flaky, unleavened bread. Months later, a smuggled message from another camp had explained how to produce yeast from urine. Sceptical but desperate, they had boiled and disinfected fresh urine as instructed. Then they had mixed the liquid with dough that, to their delight and astonishment, had risen perfectly with no unpleasant taste. To keep the yeast supply going, Bertha was constantly seeking ‘donations’. Still laughing at Mai’s horrified expression, Kate went to do her duty.
The next morning was cloudless. Kate was up much earlier than usual. She had done the washing and was taking it to the many lines strung between the backs of the huts and the former sports field that was now divided into small vegetable plots. Most of the residents tried to grow some additional food, as did Kate.
Two months earlier, Marianne van Dam had contracted beriberi and then she had developed tropical ulcers on her legs. She had been in and out of the camp infirmary. Most of the time she was too weak to move from her bed. Dr Santen did not have the medicines to cure her. Every extra scrap of food Kate could find, work or trade went to her mother. For the past week Kate had harvested a tomato daily from her plot. Marianne’s condition had improved slightly and Kate was convinced it was due to the fruit.
As she neared her plot she was pleased to see that three small tomatoes had ripened on her spindly plants. A little happier now, she began to peg out the small pile of clothes that represented most of her and her mother’s wardrobes. As the line filled it blocked her view of the camp fences. The expanse of clear sky prompted her to hum the ‘Blue Danube’.
Familiar voices made her turn. It was Marja and Anna, also carrying washing. Kate had an idea and quickly pegged out a red bib, a pair of her mother’s white knickers and, just as the girls reached her, a royal blue blouse.
‘Attention!’ Kate chortled, saluting the homemade Dutch colours. Marja and Anna saluted as well. Then the three girls burst out laughing. Kate’s gaze travelled up to the former guesthouse beyond the fence. A young man was watching her from an open window. He was bare-chested and holding a razor. For a long moment their eyes met and held. Kate caught her breath. His gaze was penetrating. A deep, sensual tingling ran through her. Her lips were forming a shy smile when she realised to her horror that her admirer was Japanese. Shock, guilt and then dread gripped her.
Kate’s first thought was to warn her friends who were still joking, unaware of their audience. Her face pale, she was about to speak when two guards entered the garden. Automatically, all three girls bowed low, suddenly very afraid. Any display of the Dutch flag was punishable by a beating and solitary confinement. Kate was contrite. It was her fault! They waited, holding their waist-level bows and staring at the earth as the guards walked on chatting and oblivious to the homemade Dutch bunting.
Trembling, Kate braced herself for the shout to the guards. The Jap had seen everything—how could she have been so stupid! Seconds passed but there was no reprimand. One by one the girls came out of their bows. Kate glanced quickly up at the window. The young man had gone.
She unpegged the blue blouse while Marja and Anna watched the guards.
‘Oh, Kate look!’ Marja whispered urgently.
Kate turned. One of the Japanese had stepped onto her plot and was picking the three ripe tomatoes. He popped one into his mouth, threw one to his companion and pocketed the other. Then the two guards walked away.
Stunned, Kate walked over to her plants and slumped down on her knees. Anger surged through her. She looked up again at the guesthouse. The young man was back at the window and wearing the short-sleeved khaki shirt and insignia of a Japanese officer. His face was expressionless. Despite knowing the consequences Kate stared at him with brazen disdain. For several seconds he held her gaze then turned away, drawing a curtain. She started to weep.
Chapter Two
Sadakan, Central Java
The elderly figure standing in the centre of the village square looked frail. His best white shirt was now too large for him and his green silk sarong billowed past his ankles. A mane of unruly grey hair set off his black, pot-shaped pici hat as he preached to his respectful audience drawn up in a crescent before him. His name was Maralik and he was the headmaster of the local pesantren, the Islamic school.
Maralik’s voice had a deep, relentless rhythm that held the villagers as he called upon God to guide and protect the young men graduating that day. Behind him the sun was a low, red ball falling quickly in an orange- and purple-tinged sky. Soon it would drop below the
tops of the dense green tree-tops that ringed the village. Dusk would be short. Already the heat was lifting and the bleached, woven palm-leaf roofs of the huts reflected a golden tint. He noticed that his elongated shadow had almost reached the feet of the children clustered in the first row. It was time to finish. He raised his hands, pausing slightly, for emphasis before ending his sermon. ‘There is only one God, Allah, and Mohammed is His Messenger.’
Immediately and enthusiastically his attentive audience repeated the profession of faith. With a slow nod of his head, Maralik signalled that the formalities were over. People dispersed quickly and noisily as they moved to chat with family and friends. Many of the men lit kretek cigarettes and soon the fragrant scent of cloves swept the square. Women and girls emerged from the doors of the huts carrying steaming, foot-high rice-cones on palm-leaf trays and bowls of meat, fish and vegetables. Giggling, half-naked children came trotting after their mothers or clung to their brightly patterned sarongs.
Excitement was palpable. It had been months since the residents of Sadakan had enjoyed a slametan. Today, since boys from two neighbouring villages were also graduating from Maralik’s school, three communities had been able to pool their meagre resources for the festival. The young guests of honour were sitting on smoothed log seats next to the headmen of the villages. Unused to fuss, the graduates clowned or fidgeted self-consciously, smiling with embarrassment in reply to shouts of congratulation from relatives and friends. Among them, one youth sat pensively. Lamban’s thin, soft features were impassive and he barely acknowledged the shouts of well-wishers. He was relieved when the food appeared because it meant he and the others were no longer the centre of attention.
‘I want to eat,’ said Karek who was sitting beside him. After the food shortages of the past few months, the smell of the delicacies was mouth-watering. Karek’s family lived in the next village. Like Lamban, he had just turned eighteen.