She was right about that. The heat, the mosquitoes, the bad food, the filth and the flies. Fevers and all kinds of diseases would spread fast and furiously. One of the babies was the next to die, and the mother’s anguished howls could be heard all over the camp. Susan watched Hua and Peter anxiously for signs of illness. They spent the days playing with the other English children, much as they had done with the native ones in the kampong.
Hua was learning some English words and Susan kept teaching her more. In Cantonese she asked, ‘What is your other name, Hua?’
The almond eyes screwed up. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’
The child shook her head.
‘What does your father do?’
She lifted her small shoulders, giggled.
The Chinese settlement had been a poverty-stricken place so the father would have had a low-paid job – working in hotel kitchens, perhaps, or as some kind of humble servant, perhaps even as a rickshaw-wallah. There were more Chinese than Malays in Malaya and some of the Chinese immigrants had grown very rich, but Hua’s family would have been poor.
‘Do you have uncles or aunts, Hua?’
This time she nodded. She had an aunt whose name was Su.
‘Did she live with you, in the same place?’
Another shake of the head. Aunt Su had lived somewhere else, which was lucky for her or she would probably have been killed too.
She asked the same sort of questions of Peter, but warily because she knew that he found it a painful subject.
‘You’ve never told me your surname, Peter. What is it?’
He dug in the dirt with one foot, not looking at her.
‘Travers.’
‘Do you have a middle name?’
‘Yes, but I hate it.’
‘It can’t be that bad.’
‘Yes, it can.’
‘What is it? I won’t tell anybody else.’
‘It’s Cecil. I was named after my grandfather.’
‘Your father’s father?’
He nodded.
‘Where does your grandfather live?’
‘In England.’
‘Well, I think you’ve got a very nice name. Peter Cecil Travers. That sounds awfully smart. When you’re rich and famous you might be Sir Peter. What are you going to be when you’re grown up?’
He dug away with his toe. ‘I don’t know yet.’
‘Well, you’ve got plenty of time to decide. Perhaps you’ll be the same as your father. What does he do?’
‘He’s an engineer.’
‘What sort of engineer?’
‘He builds bridges and things like that.’
‘Is his name Peter, too?’
‘No.’
She persisted gently. ‘What is it?’
‘John.’
‘Where did you live before you came down to Singapore?’
He dug deeper. ‘Lots of places.’
‘What was the last place?’
‘Kuala Kubu.’
‘I used to live in Kuala Lumpur. That’s not far away. Did your father stay behind when you and your mother left to go down to Singapore?’
He nodded.
‘So, that was the last time you saw him?’
He nodded again, biting his lip.
She was as bad as Captain Atsuji with his barrage of questions, but at least she now knew Peter’s full name, and she knew that his father was a civil engineer called John who had stayed on in Kuala Kubu and that he had a grandfather in England called Cecil. It would all help to return Peter to his family one day.
Peter dug on with his toe. ‘How long are we going to be in this place?’
‘I don’t know,’ she told him. ‘Quite a long time, I expect. The Japs will keep us prisoner until the British and Americans win the war and I’m afraid that won’t happen for a while. We must just make the best of things. I promise you one thing, Peter.’
He lifted his head and looked at her. ‘What’s that?’
‘When the war’s over and we’re set free, I’ll find your father for you.’
‘He might not be alive. He might have been killed like Mummy.’
‘He’s an engineer, not a soldier, so he’ll probably be quite all right. We’ll find him. And we’ll find your grandfather in England, too. That’s a promise.’
He nodded and went off to join the other children, who were making long ropes out of plaited palm leaves. The girls used theirs for skipping, the boys theirs for jumping. Peter, she noticed, was rather a good athlete. Perhaps he took after his father – the father called John who, like her own father, might be alive or might be dead.
After supper – rice again, this time with a piece of half-raw potato and some scraps of rubber that were, apparently, dried octopus – one of the guards came up to Susan. He spoke in bad Malay. Captain Atsuji wanted to see her. A sharp prod with the bayonet. At once.
She went into the hut, took off her hat and bowed.
‘You like cigarette?’
A tin full of Players was being offered across the table – obviously filched from the British.
‘No, thank you.’ She would have loved one, but not from a Jap.
He lit one for himself, blowing the smoke tantalizingly in her direction.
‘English cigarette. Very good.’
She waited, fists clenched. What was his game? What was he up to? The kerosene lamp on the table was making little hissing sounds and moths were beating their wings helplessly against the glass. His slit-eyed face looked frightening in the lamplight – like a carnival mask.
‘Your name Susan. Susan Roper.’
‘I’ve already told you that.’
‘Yes, we have list of prisoners now. All names.’
‘Bully for you.’
She saw that he was puzzled by the English slang.
‘You talk to me. Good talk.’
‘I am talking to you.’
‘Is bad talk. Not good. You speak to me like friend.’
Like a friend? Oh God …
‘I’m not your friend. I’d sooner be dead.’
He scowled. ‘I order you as prisoner. You talk and teach me good English. How to use correct words.’
She nearly laughed aloud with relief. The horrible little man only wanted to improve his terrible English. She shrugged.
‘If you like.’
‘We start now. I say good morning. How are you?’
‘Sick as a dog.’
He frowned. ‘This is correct?’
‘The English use the expression all the time. It means not very well.’
‘So … Sick as a dog. Now you ask me how I am.’
‘How are you?’
‘I am very well, thank you.’
‘An Englishman would say I’m in the pink.’
He repeated it carefully.
‘We talk about weather now. English weather. Today it is very cold.’
‘Yes, it’s bloody freezing.’
Again he repeated it. ‘Bloody freezing. I ask more questions.’
‘Carry on.’
‘What is the time, please?’
‘I haven’t the foggiest.’
‘Fog? I do not talk of weather now.’
‘It’s nothing to do with the weather. It just means I’ve no idea.’
‘I not have foggiest.’
‘The foggiest.’
‘I not have the foggiest.’
‘I have not the foggiest.’
‘I have not the foggiest. This is correct?’
‘Yes. You’ve got it right.’
‘I ask another question. Where is the train stop, please?’
‘Not stop. Kennel. You must ask for the kennel. Where is the train kennel, please? That’s what you say.’
The ridiculous English lesson dragged on. If he ever got to London again she would love to see people’s faces when he tried to ask his way or to strike up a polite conversation. He was looking very pleased with himself.
‘Now you ask me things and I answer.’
‘All right. Can we have more food? We aren’t given enough to survive and what we are given has gone bad. And we need medicines, especially for the children. Some of them are very ill.’
His face darkened. ‘This not good talk.’
‘You said Japanese people weren’t savages but you are letting us die. Only savages would do that.’
He jumped to his feet and hit her across the face so hard that she staggered sideways. Then he hit her again, harder still, and she fell to the ground.
‘You very bad woman. Not respect Japanese officer. You go now.’
The guard kicked her with his boot as she struggled to her feet. ‘Bow to officer. Show respect.’
In the hut, Mrs Cotton said, ‘Are you all right, Susan?’
She touched the side of her face gingerly. Her lip was bleeding and already swollen and a tooth felt loose. ‘I’m OK.’
‘What on earth did he want?’
‘English lessons. He wants to improve his English conversation. It was rather a hoot.’
It hadn’t been a hoot, though. To be a captive, to be completely in someone else’s power and to fear what they might do if they so chose was the most terrifying thing on earth. She was still trembling, her heart still pounding away as she lay on the floor in the dark. The mosquitoes had started their nightly raid. Some animal – probably a monkey – called out suddenly from the jungle. It sounded like mocking laughter.
Lady Battersby was released a few days later. She tottered out into the compound, blinking in the glare of the sun. Incredibly, her navy leghorn straw hat was still on her head, her gloves on her hands, her stockings on her legs, her white court shoes on her feet, her white leather handbag over her arm, and the snailshell hair in position. Only the pearl choker was missing, confiscated by the Japanese. She waved away all offers of support in the same old peremptory manner, but she looked frail and much older. At tenko the next morning all eyes were on her, all breaths held as she stood in the front row. If she refused there would be more long hours standing in the sun for them all. After a long and tense moment, she bowed.
Another prisoner arrived alone – a tall girl in ragged clothes, with wild hair and skin burned deep brown. Susan watched her stride in through the gateway, ignoring the guards and their bayonets. It wasn’t until she heard her Australian voice that she realized it was Stella.
Like all new arrivals, she was instantly mobbed by the others and bombarded with questions. Where had she come from? What had happened to her? What news did she have of the war? Stella told her story. When the ship had been sunk she had got on to a raft with other nurses, and they had drifted for several days. Three of the nurses had died before the raft was washed up on a deserted beach, and the rest of them were in very bad shape. After a day or two they had decided to try to find a way through the jungle to reach help. They had set off but she had somehow got separated from the others. She had come across a river and followed it until some Jap soldiers had seen her and brought her to the camp. She had no idea what had happened to the other nurses.
‘I didn’t realize it was you at first,’ Susan told her later.
‘Same here. You look like you’ve been through the wars a bit.’
‘How did you manage to hang on to your shoes?’
‘I never took them off. And thank God I didn’t. I’ve needed them, I can tell you. What about those two little kids you were looking after?’
‘They’re here. We were lucky. We all survived.’
‘Tell me about it.’
She told her. Stella whistled.
‘Crikey, you were lucky. I was too. This place might not be five star, but at least we’re alive.’
‘What about the other nurses that were with you?’
‘They’re dead.’
Susan stared at her. ‘All of them? Are you sure?’
‘Certain. Swear you won’t ever breathe a word and I’ll tell you about it.’
They walked away to a corner of the compound and Stella talked in a low voice. When the raft had been washed up on the beach, they had found other survivors there – British sailors from another ship, one of them seriously wounded. They had done what they could for the wounded man but he had died during the night. The next day a group of Japanese soldiers had arrived. The British sailors had been marched off round a corner out of sight and the nurses had heard shots before the Japs had returned wiping blood from their bayonets.
Stella said, ‘We knew what they’d done, of course, the murdering bastards. Next thing, their officer told us nurses to get in a row and made us walk away from them into the sea. Then they machine-gunned us in the back. They missed me but I pretended I’d been hit. I fell face down in the water and floated there, as though I was dead. When they’d gone away, I came out and hid in the jungle. You should have seen the sea – it was all red with blood. I was the only one to survive.’
‘Oh God, how horrible.’
‘Yeah, pretty gruesome, isn’t it? I didn’t tell the others that part of the story because if the Nips find out that I was a witness they’ll kill me. So, swear you won’t tell a soul.’
‘I swear.’
‘You see, I’ve made up my mind that, whatever happens, I’m going to stay alive so that when we’ve finally won this bloody war I can see to it that those pigs get punished for what they did. They’re going to pay for it one day.’
Soon after Stella’s arrival, they were moved across the Bangka Strait to another camp in Palembang in Sumatra. The long journey began in the dark at three in the morning when the women and children walked in a weary line to the quayside, carrying their few possessions and a handful of cooked rice wrapped in a banana leaf to last them for the day. They walked slowly, some of them limping from sores and unhealed wounds, others weak from sickness. After several hours waiting on the quayside they were ferried out in small boats to a dirty old tramp steamer with open decks. There was no protection from either the blazing sun or the drenching rain which came and went alternately on the twenty-mile crossing over the strait into the mouth of the Musi River. There were sixty more miles in steaming heat until they finally reached Palembang in the late afternoon. After waiting for several more hours on the quayside they were transported to the new camp, standing up in open trucks and booed by the natives gathered on the roadside.
It was larger than the previous camp – a rectangular space, surrounded by a wire fence, about a hundred yards long and fifty yards wide and with one well. The prisoners were kept in vermin-infested bamboo huts with rusty corrugated-iron roofs, and they slept on bare concrete floors – thirty or more to each small, airless hut. Rain dripped in through leaky roofs, lizards crawled about the walls, snakes slithered in between cracks and curled up in corners, enormous spiders and rats ran over them at night and lice and leeches and mosquitoes had a human feast.
The daily rations were delivered by truck and thrown out on to the ground for them to retrieve like starving dogs – rotten cabbages, decaying beans, mouldy carrots, sacks of dirty rice full of weevils, fat maggots and bits of broken glass and stones. Sometimes they were tossed a hunk of decomposing wild pig that had to be hacked into fair shares for each hut with a penknife and ended up as a tiny sliver for each person. Cooking was done in empty kerosene cans and tins over wood fires fuelled by chopped-up doors, all water carried in one bucket from the well. There were no baths or showers and the lavatory was an open concrete drain, used also by the guards – stinking and fly-ridden.
More prisoners arrived in lorries. English civilians, Dutch nuns in their flowing white habits and Dutch families weighed down with suitcases and boxes crammed with their possessions. The men were immediately marched away, the women and children left behind to swell the camp numbers. There were now nearly four hundred crowded into the twelve huts. Natives from the surrounding kampongs came to the wire to stare and point at them, the children giggling behind their hands.
The camp commandant,
Captain Hatsuho, was a short man with stiff black hair and a voice like a dog’s bark. He spoke no English and his screaming harangues at tenko, standing on an old packing box, were translated unintelligibly by one of the guards. Punishments were meted out at random – blows to the head, slaps to the face, withdrawal of rations, solitary confinement. If the bowing was thought not low enough at tenko all prisoners, children included, were made to stand for hours in the burning sun. The guards were sadistic, stupid, lazy. Their captives gave them names to suit them: Bandy Legs, Squint Eyes, Pig Face, Buck Teeth.
Among the English arrivals there had been a woman doctor and several nurses, and two of the huts were given over to make a camp hospital. There were no beds, no sheets, no equipment, no quinine or other medicines, but plenty of patients to fill it to overflowing. They made bali bali for them to lie on – low pallets of rubber-tree branches bound together. Malaria, fevers and dysentery spread throughout the camp and the row of graves outside it lengthened steadily.
Stella had gone to work in the hospital and her hatred of the Japs increased with every death.
‘One of the kids went today,’ she said. ‘That sweet little girl Ruth. We tried everything but we couldn’t save her – there was nothing to save her with. I’d like to kill every Jap on this earth.’
The violent Sumatra storms had damaged most of the roofs. In the hut where Susan slept with thirty other prisoners, there was a big hole above her. At night, lying on the hard, cold concrete floor, Hua on one side, Peter on the other, she could look up and see the stars shining above. She thought, the Japs can take away our freedom, our dignity, our comfort and almost everything else that matters, but they can’t take away the stars.
Twelve
1942 DRAGGED BY. The monotonous days became weeks and the weeks became months. Since the Japs did nothing to improve conditions in the camp, the prisoners did what they could for themselves. Two representatives were elected to deal with Captain Hatsuho – a nun, Sister Beatrix, for the Dutch and Miss Tarrant, a missionary schoolteacher, for the British. Lady Battersby had been much put out not to have been chosen, but Miss Tarrant spoke some Japanese and was a much more tactful negotiator. Lessons were started for the children in a corner of the compound and Miss Tarrant managed to persuade Captain Hatsuho to provide paper and pencils. Committees were formed, rations shared out meticulously. Cooking, cleaning and water-carrying rotas were drawn up in each hut, turns taken with the only axe to chop firewood, cooking pans improvised from empty cans with sticks for handles, utensils from tin and wood, washing lines from bamboo. Life in the camp brought out the best and the worst in people: some were always more willing to help than others, some always had excuses. Some were strong and some were weak.
The Other Side of Paradise Page 17