Black Sun, Red Moon

by Rory Marron

  At ten forty-five the next morning, Van Zanten and Hurwitz were ushered into a large reception lounge in the main house. Before the war it had been a ballroom. Now rattan chairs and tables formed island clusters on the lustrous teak floor. Servants in crisp white jackets darted from table to table with trays of refreshments.

  Van Zanten scanned the room, noting groups of Westerners, Indians and Asians. He deliberately chose a middle table and sat facing the polished double doors that he presumed led to Mountbatten’s inner sanctum. Each time the doors opened conversation in the room died until the next party of diplomats or businessmen were called. Mountbatten was running late. Van Zanten felt like a court petitioner waiting for a royal audience. Hurwitz, as usual, took it personally.

  ‘It’s disgraceful that Asiatics get preference!’ he snarled in Dutch. ‘Those Burmans were in there for almost half-an-hour!’

  Van Zanten tried to ignore him. Here they were at the very heart of British operations in Asia. An uncharitable American diplomat had once told him that SEAC really stood for ‘Save England’s Asian Colonies’. Van Zanten listened. Amid the noise, he made out English, Urdu, Malay, French and Siamese. He sat back, quietly enjoying the sight of the harassed-looking administrators rushing back and forth clutching files and signals. Yet he was also intrigued. He had expected an air of smug satisfaction among the British but it was not the case. Most of those who emerged from their meeting with Mountbatten seemed far from happy.

  At eleven-twenty, Hurwitz lowered his fraying, five-day-old copy of The Times, looked elaborately at his watch and loudly pronounced the obvious. ‘Fah! They’re running round like chickens. They’ll never get anything done this way. I will tell Mountbatten so myself!’ Having made his point to everyone in the room, he returned to his newspaper.

  Idly van Zanten wondered if Hurwitz had any idea of the implications of his petulant observation. In contrast, he had been trying to visualise the contents of Mountbatten’s mounting in-tray. It was an instructive exercise.

  It was another ten minutes before they were finally invited through to see the Supreme Commander. Mountbatten sprang up from behind his desk, his hand extended.

  ‘Dr Van Zanten, welcome to SEAC HQ. I’m dreadfully sorry to have kept you waiting.’ He turned quickly to Hurwitz who made to salute but Mountbatten’s hand was already proffered. ‘My dear Admiral Hurwitz, it’s been a long time. Wonderful to see a fellow sea-dog for a change!’

  Hurwitz coughed in pleasure, instantly disarmed. Van Zanten had to admit that the Supreme Commander certainly had charisma.

  Mountbatten introduced a short, older man in civilian clothes. ‘Gentlemen, this is Major Dening from the Foreign and Colonial Office.’

  Van Zanten was on his guard immediately. He knew Dening by reputation. They shook hands.

  ‘It’s been an amazing three weeks,’ said Mountbatten smiling again. ‘God Bless the Yanks for ending the war!’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Van Zanten. ‘They can certainly keep a secret!’ He was watching Mountbatten very closely.

  ‘You’re referring to the A-bomb? Indeed—I was only told days before. Astounding!’ Mountbatten paused and in that brief moment Van Zanten glimpsed his exhaustion and, he was convinced, the truth. So, he thought, most of the British field commanders had been kept in the dark too. But still, not as long as the Dutch….

  They spent a few minutes chatting about the celebrations in Europe and Churchill’s defeat in the British general election. When Dening opened a file, Mountbatten ended the pleasantries. ‘Now, Gentlemen, we hope to have you back in Batavia as soon as possible. But I have one or two problems. Just look at the size of my office.’ Mountbatten waved at a large map of Southeast Asia that took up half of a wall. It was dotted with pin-flags and cut-out coloured shapes from Calcutta to Saigon. Instinctively, both the Dutchmen’s’ eyes flashed to the islands of the East Indies. The area was unmarked.

  ‘This is the extent of my command,’ Mountbatten continued. ‘As you can see, my main resources are in Malaya and Burma. But the extra men assigned for the invasion of Malaya are either still in India or already on their way back to England. This means I have no troops available for a presence in any strength elsewhere. As for the Indies, well, I fear it will be some time before I can send any troops at all. Developments have caught us all on the hop.’

  Van Zanten took the opportunity to draw closer to the map. He did not waste words. ‘Just how long is “some time”, Admiral? As you can imagine, we are keen to return to the Indies immediately. My administration in Australia is ready as are other units in the Netherlands. All we need are a few ships—’

  Mountbatten stopped him with a tired shake of his head and a shrug. ‘Food aid and the repatriation of Allied troops and prisoners of war have been given priority. Ships are one thing we haven’t got. There is a huge shortage. But I do appreciate your concerns and I have ordered the Japanese to maintain law and order in the Indies until British troops can arrive to take their surrender and then move them out, preferably back to Japan, if not, then to Malaya.’

  Van Zanten, who had already seen a copy of Mountbatten’s secret signal to the Japanese, said nothing. It was too much for Hurwitz. ‘British troops, Admiral? Why not Dutch?’

  Mountbatten raised his hands in exaggerated helplessness. ‘The Potsdam Agreement permits only American, Russian or British forces to disarm the Japanese and take their surrenders. British units must go to the Indies. We also have POWs there, so naturally we are making efforts to get them medical care as soon as possible. We have been dropping in small, advance teams over the last week or so.’

  Hurwitz appeared unable to compose a reply. Van Zanten’s tone remained even. ‘Of course, Admiral, that makes sense—for London,’ he added pointedly, looking at Dening.

  ‘Doctor Van Zanten,’ Dening replied pleasantly, we would be delighted to see a speedy handover to your administration.

  ‘Most certainly,’ Mountbatten added quickly. ‘Everyone wants to go home.’

  ‘The Indies are my home, Admiral,’ replied Van Zanten quietly. ‘I was born there.’

  For the first time, Mountbatten seemed caught off-guard. ‘Yes, of course, I understand,’ he said nodding vigorously. He glanced at Dening who indicated the wall map. ‘The, er, very limited information we have on file from the Netherlands Government and your own Civil Administration suggests that the situation in the Indies is relatively stable,’ he stated dryly. ‘All the signs are that the Japanese in Java and the other islands are obeying the surrender order despite Marshal Terauchi’s initial opposition. Did you know Hirohito’s brother was sent to Saigon to convince Terauchi to play along? Anyway, a short delay in the arrival of our forces need not be problematic.’

  Mountbatten was looking inquisitively at the two Dutchmen. ‘Is there any new intelligence that would suggest the situation is not as we understand it?’

  ‘No Admiral, as you say, we expect a smooth re-establishment of Dutch administration,’ Van Zanten said with a confidence he did not feel.

  Mountbatten raised an eyebrow. ‘I see. But surely the declaration of independence was something of a surprise?’

  Alarm bells began to ring in Van Zanten’s head. He kept his face relaxed but his scornful tone was genuine.

  ‘It’s just a Japanese plot, Admiral. There is no serious independence movement I can assure—’

  ‘Traitors! Quislings!’ Hurwitz thundered.

  Van Zanten let him rant.

  ‘Sukarno’s a known collaborator,’ Hurwitz raged, his face flushed pink. ‘We’ll soon have him and the others swinging from a yardarm!’

  ‘I see,’ Mountbatten replied with obvious disquiet. He turned to Van Zanten. ‘I hope you are right, Doctor.’

  That night Van Zanten and Hurwitz dined with Mountbatten’s staff and some of the other delegations. By the time they returned to their bungalow Van Zanten was in a very good humour indeed and Hurwitz, in contrast, thoroughly perplexed. Van Zanten, however, had had a very pro
ductive day. From the depths of depression he was now soaring.

  After the meeting with Mountbatten, he and Hurwitz had spent hours in meetings with SEAC staff. They had been able to inspect files on the Indies at their leisure. Entries ended in February 1942 with the Allied surrender. At first Van Zanten was sure the small number of documents was a ruse. But after a while he had become convinced that the files and co-operation were genuine. It had taken all his self-control to contain his growing elation. Apart from information from the Japanese since the surrender about their garrisons’ strengths, there was little more than general reports on Java’s climate and beaches.

  Van Zanten lounged in an armchair and began to laugh. ‘You know, Jurgen,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘it never even occurred to me that the British could be less prepared than we are. They think it’s all over!’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Hurwitz ventured. ‘They will send troops….’

  ‘Until today, I thought so, too. But now we are back in the game—but it has become a race.’ His tone was suddenly formal. ‘A toast!’

  ‘To what?’ Hurwitz was encouraged but still confused by Van Zanten’s change of mood.

  ‘An English king,’ Van Zanten replied.

  Hurwitz frowned. ‘English?’

  ‘To King Ethelred the Unready,’ chuckled Van Zanten. ‘May his spirit live on in SEAC!’

  Chapter Twelve

  Surabaya, East Java

  A black Model-A Ford sedan slowed and then stopped with a smoky rattle in the middle of the Red Bridge, the main crossing over the Kali Mas river which ran north-south through the centre of Surabaya. Three men eased themselves out of the car. It had been a long, jarring and thirsty drive from their internment camp near Magelang. They stretched stiffly but happily; glad to be back in their home city after nearly three years. In their good humour they failed to notice the suspicious stares from the steady stream of locals who kept a wide berth from the thin, raggedly dressed white men.

  Hans Wijk stared across the bridge towards the imposing, neo-classical building that had been the International Bank. Red-and-white striped bunting hung from lampposts and railings, and on the large flagpole outside the bank, a six-foot square nationalist flag flapped in the gentle afternoon breeze. Dismayed, he turned to look down towards the Willemskade business district where he had spent most of his working life with the Royal Packet Navigation Company. Many of the windows along the Societeitstraat were smashed, Dutch signs removed or defaced and the once-neat white brickwork daubed with slogans. Wijk’s felt a flush of anger.

  Beside him, the bald, toothless Oscar Boer, was also taking in the scene. He was a watchmaker by profession. In the camp he had supplemented his rations by turning his skills to repairing appliances. ‘For Heaven’s sake,’ he said pointing. ‘Look at that. “Indonesia is Free! Dutch go back to Holland!” How dare they write such things!’

  ‘We don’t seem very popular, Dad,’ said the third, much younger, man. Leo Wijk was twenty-two and impatient to enjoy his new freedom. ‘They’re all wearing rebel colours!’ he sneered accusingly.

  Wijk saw his son was right. Nearly everyone passing them sported a red and white badge or ribbon of some kind.

  ‘Our soldiers will deal with them,’ Boer scoffed sharply. ‘My shop is on the Kembang Djepoon. Can we go there now?’

  Wijk shrugged. ‘You can if you like. First I’m going to get a room and have a shower at the Oranje, then see if Hellendoorn’s is open for lunch. After that, we’ll go and see what’s left of your shop.’

  A few minutes later, their car turned into a boulevard dissected by a pair of tramlines. Imposing, three- and four-storey Art-Deco buildings with flat roofs, tall chimney blocks, pillared verandas and rectangular buttresses lined either side. The Oranje Hotel was a place of special significance for the Wijks family. Before the war they had gathered there each week for Sunday lunch. Anniversaries, christenings, confirmations, weddings and funerals had all been marked at the Oranje. Only four years before, Wijk’s eldest son had held his wedding reception in the elegant, teak-panelled banquet hall. He expected Leo to do the same.

  Wijk got out of the car relieved to see the hotel was open and undamaged. A painted sign over the entrance read ‘Yamato Hotel’. As he looked higher, his face clouded. Mounted on top of the high chimney stack was a flagpole. Wijk had never seen it without the Dutch tricolour but now the flag of Indonesia had replaced it. He looked quickly along the rooftops of the adjoining buildings. Several flew the same red and white.

  ‘I’m looking forward to a hot bath,’ said Leo.

  ‘And clean towels!’ Boer added, raising his finger for emphasis.

  They looked expectantly as the hotel doorman, a youth of about fifteen in shorts and short-sleeved shirt complete with red and white ribbon, came running out. When he saw them he drew up sharply. Alarm and confusion played on his face. Then he turned and bolted back inside.

  ‘Disgraceful!’ Boer muttered as the three of them strode into the lobby. ‘Blom will be furious when he sees his staff wearing those colours.’

  ‘Hello, Abdul,’ Wijk said pleasantly in Dutch, recognising the clearly surprised middle-aged man behind the desk. ‘Not much has changed here—except that I see you’ve been promoted.’ On the breast pocket of Abdul’s white shirt a badge read ‘Manager’. Before the invasion he had been the reservations clerk.

  ‘Hello, Mr Wijk.’ Abdul replied a little nervously.

  ‘I’d like the Oranje suite for my son and I, and a double room for Mr Boer.’

  ‘Yes…of course. It’s called the Raya suite now,’ Abdul mumbled. ‘How long will you be staying?’

  ‘As long as is necessary.’

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Wijk but how will you be paying?’

  ‘With these…’ Wijk fanned several high-denomination guilder banknotes. ‘I should also think I have some credit left on my account.’

  ‘I am sorry, Wijk-tuan,’ Abdul said uncomfortably, ‘we accept only Japanese rupiahs.’

  Wijk’s eyes narrowed. ‘Enemy money? Somehow I don’t think Mr Blom will like that.’

  Abdul looked to the floor then at Wijk. ‘Mr Blom no longer owns the hotel. It is now the property of the Revolutionary Council of Surabaya.’

  Boer stepped forward, outraged. ‘This is absolutely—’

  Suddenly the young doorman reappeared and began shouting in Javanese at Abdul. ‘We should not let any Dutch stay here! Why did you call him “tuan”? You are speaking their filthy tongue! Where is your Merdeka grit!’

  Abdul silenced him curtly. ‘A hotel needs guests!’ He turned to Wijk who had understood the exchange. ‘I will be happy to give you rooms for this evening but payment must be in Japanese rupiahs. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Very well,’ Wijk sighed resignedly. ‘I have rupiahs.’

  Abdul visibly relaxed. ‘Oh, good… I will—’

  ‘One thing,’ interrupted Wijk, ‘I will not sleep under that flag. Take it down now. Mr Blom will want it down as well.’

  Abdul’s face fell. ‘Mr Wijk, please, you should not say such things.’

  Wijk turned to his son. ‘Leo, rip down that rebel rag!’

  Leo grinned at his father. ‘With pleasure!’ He bolted up the stairs.

  The Javanese youth ran out into the road and began yelling and pointing. Soon a small crowd of youths formed. They hurled abuse.

  Wijk went out. ‘Listen to me,’ Wijk said sternly in fluent Javanese, ignoring the shouts. ‘The war is over. Everything changed by the Japanese is illegal. People will soon be returning to take back their property, including this hotel!’

  Leo let the flag fall. It dropped at Boer’s feet. He picked it up and tried to tear it but he was too weak. A youth grabbed at the flag and punched Boer hard in the face, knocking him down. ‘Aah! My nose,’ moaned Boer. ‘The bastard’s broken my nose!’

  Without thinking, Wijk seized the youth by the arm and slapped him across the face. There was sudden silence.

  Defiantly the youth stare
d back, then he bellowed ‘Merdeka!’ and spat in Wijk’s face.

  Wijk was genuinely stunned. For the first time he looked carefully at the hostile faces and saw the rare mata-gelap—the wild-eyed fury—that could send the Javanese running amok. Too late, he realised he had completely misread their mood. Beside him, Boer was suddenly quiet. He, too, was finally sensing danger.

  Suddenly the youth who had spat drew a knife and shouted. ‘Death to the blue eyes!’

  Menacingly the group started to encircle the two Dutchmen. More knives were produced. Wijk and Boer began backing away.

  ‘Father, I’ve—’ Leo called, rushing out of the hotel doorway.

  ‘Leo, run!’ Wijk shouted as the knives slashed at him. Boer tried to flee, but he was easily held. Both men went down under a wave of blows.

  ‘Bastards! Stop!’ Leo shouted frantically pushing his way desperately into the midst of the struggle. A dozen hands seized him. Knives rose and fell.

  In the hotel Abdul had not moved from behind the front desk. The young doorman entered the lobby, brandishing the blood-splattered flag high like a trophy. He snorted at Abdul, then ran up to the roof.

  Hesitantly, Abdul went to the door. Three figures lay in spreading pools of blood, their battered bodies almost unrecognisable. Passers-by stared in silence and walked on. Abdul steeled himself and went out. The Wijks had been kind to him over the years. He would see to them…

  As he stood over the corpses he glanced back at the front of the hotel. His lips quivered. Stamped in blood-soaked palm-prints on the wall was a stark message: ‘No Dutch!’

  Abdul darted back inside. He would wait till dark when it would be safer. Out in the street, stray dogs started to sniff at the corpses.

  The Java Sea

  Once they were out in the shipping lanes, the crew and passengers aboard the Melchior Treub settled down for the journey. To Meg’s relief, the galley seemed well stocked and the meal of freshly caught fish she took with Jarisha was delicious. Unable to face the heat and dirt of her cabin, she settled for a hammock on the deck, passing the time with her guidebook, committing the map to memory and trying to learn a few words of Javanese, though she had doubts about the usefulness of phrases such as ‘Here, coolie, take my luggage’. She was looking forward to reaching Java. Already she sensed her assignment was more complicated than her editor had anticipated.