A few days later, the fighting in the city subsided. Uncle Soen reported that the Indian infantry’s Fighting Cock Brigade had suffered huge losses. Sukarno even had to come to Surabaya in person to force a ceasefire between the warring parties.
At the beginning of November, I found myself walking down Jagalan over Pasar Besar, past toppled lampposts and buildings and homes that had been shot to pieces. People were wandering the streets, searching desperately for victims and possessions. With ‘Merdeka’ as my password, I negotiated my way past groups of pemudas. Arriving at Contong Square, I met a number of my schoolfriend Soedjono’s brothers-in-arms. They told me that a British brigadier had been killed by a civilian militia the previous evening, his mutilated body thrown from the Red Bridge into Kali Mas, fodder for the ravenous crocodiles, iguanas and giant river turtles that lived in the city’s waterways.
*
One morning at dawn, the drone of a Mitchell bomber was heard and pamphlets were scattered over the city. Hungry for news, people ran out to pick them up. Partly in English and partly in Malay, the pamphlets said all of Indonesia’s combat forces had forty-eight hours to surrender their arms at designated collection points in the city centre and the port districts of Tanjung Perak and Ujung. Unless this Allied demand was met, there would be another bloodbath on the streets of Surabaya.
The demand was ignored. People were prepared to fight to the last breath. The pemudas began reinforcing their positions and building new barricades armed with all kinds of smuggled military equipment.
On my visits to Uncle Soen, I often encountered boys who fought alongside Soetardjo. They too were armed to the teeth. When I asked after him, I was told that he was helping to man the positions near Westerbuitenweg. I began to pity him, for I believed that he and his ragtag bunch of schoolboy fanatics did not stand a chance. The 5th Indian Division would be their next adversary. Newly arrived in Tanjung Perak, it consisted of British colonial army units: Gurkhas, Dogras, Punjabis and Sikhs, all with formidable combat experience.
‘Be careful, Arto,’ Uncle Soen warned me. ‘Lay low during the coming hostilities. If you still want to escape this place, wait for a sign from me and say nothing to your mother, brothers and sisters.’
He gave me a red-and-white insignia to replace the Chinese badge I had been wearing. The colours of Indonesia on my shirt would make it easier to cross pemuda lines. He also gave me the pemudas’ new password: ‘Sudara – Merdeka’.
*
Waking at the crack of dawn one day, I was unable to doze off again. A peaceful night’s sleep was something I had not known since the Japanese invasion. I picked up on vibrations in the air that told me when fighting was about to break out. Around ten I heard the first artillery fire from the direction of the port, building steadily. After thirty minutes, the intensity decreased and Royal Navy Mosquito and Thunderbolt fighter-bombers appeared in the skies above the city. I watched them dive and fire. The Mosquito engines were so quiet that, by the time you heard them, they were already overhead, spitting fire from their noses. The pemudas’ positions were blown to pieces.
I went to see Uncle Soen again late that afternoon. He had visitors: a couple of pemudas who had just been relieved of their post among the fighting in the port district. As was the Javanese custom, I sat on the floor beside them. From their garbled accounts, I made out that they had fought a desperate battle against Indian infantry units and had gained a profound respect for their enemy with their shaved heads and their pony tails. These were Gurkha and Dogra soldiers who had seen intensive combat not only on the Burma front, but also in southern and western Europe. To a man they carried a kukri strapped to the back of their belt, and used its curved blade to slit the enemy’s throat. The pemudas said they had met overwhelming resistance and had been forced to pull back to the start of the long Sulung viaduct near Pasar Turi.
That night as usual I joined a handful of neighbours to patrol the streets of Undaan. We started at two and finished at four. The gun battles and artillery fire continued throughout the night.
On my way to Uncle Soen’s the next morning, I met Soetardjo’s mother. Sobbing, she told me that her son had been killed. I felt for Soetardjo but I was happy to hear that the pemudas were losing ground. Poker-faced, I offered the poor woman a few words of comfort and continued on my way. Arriving at Uncle Soen’s, I asked him when I would be able to make my escape. He said I would have to wait until British troops controlled the full length of the Sulung viaduct.
I showed him the dagger Pah Tjillih had given me and asked him to treat it with poison. After some hesitation, he set to work in his small kitchen. Uncle Soen selected poisonous herbs to make a deadly arsenic compound, which he mixed with a powerful prussic acid solution. He smeared the mixture on my dagger and let it work its way into the metal. Within the hour, the entire blade had rusted.
‘Graze your enemy’s skin and he will die within minutes,’ he said, handing me the dagger. ‘Be careful not to cut your own hands. As I smeared the blade, I uttered a terrible curse that will protect you and bring death upon your enemy.’
Tears appeared in my uncle’s eyes. ‘Arto, I am forced to acknowledge that you have grown into a cold-blooded killer. During the Japanese occupation, I sensed that you had killed Japanese soldiers near Genteng Kali. As a child, you were shown no love by your parents, your brothers or your sisters. Now you are twenty, a grown man, yet your eyes are kind and your face is soft as a girl’s. Every adversary will underestimate you and pay dearly for their mistake. Arto, promise me one thing… If you find yourself in conflict with your brothers and sisters, do not kill them! They are your own flesh and blood! It was with pain in my heart that I turned your dagger into a highly poisonous weapon. Remember that not all Indonesians are your enemy. Few among them have done you harm. But you are torn between two worlds, and revenge and hatred have clouded your heart.’
I embraced Uncle Soen and left. That night I took my dagger with me. And of course, I strapped that cursed takeyari to my back. I hated that bamboo spear, just as I hated everything that smacked of the Japanese and their atrocities. Taking the footbridge across the narrow canal, I walked from Undaan Kulon to Undaan Wetan. After exchanging the necessary passwords and greetings with the pemudas who manned the barricades, I slipped past them into the kampong, taking care to stick to narrow alleys and dead-end paths. I spotted a solitary pemuda urinating against a wall, drew my dagger and slid it between his ribs. With a muted cry, he collapsed in a heap. I took his Mannlicher rifle, removed the bolt and hurled it far over the wall. I wiped my bloodied blade on the pemuda’s clothes, slid my trusty friend back into its sheath and moved on without making a sound. A few alleyways along, I saw another pemuda. He was sitting on the ground dozing, his weapon lying thoughtlessly beside him. I crept up on him and thrust my dagger deep into his neck. The poison did its work swiftly and thoroughly. I wiped the blood from my blade on his uniform.
Visions of the innocent women and children slaughtered in front of the former Simpang Club flashed through my mind. I felt a surge of revulsion but forced myself to go on. My body turned cold, then warm. The more men I killed, the fewer there would be to resist the British. A few yards along, snores alerted me to the presence of a third pemuda. I plunged my dagger deep into his throat.
Cautiously I made my way back to Undaan Kulon and, wielding my takeyari, joined the neighbourhood patrol. From the sound of the artillery barrage, I concluded that the battle for Surabaya was nearing the city centre.
At four in the morning, when my watch ended, it was still dark. Instead of going home, I walked to Jagalan to assess the situation. There I saw groups of young nationalists, men and women, advancing through Pasar Besar to Sulung district. The British front-line units had nearly advanced as far as Pasar Turi and the fighting there was fierce.
The banks of Kali Peneleh
From Jagalan, I walked back to Undaan past the banks of Kali Peneleh. All along the way, I saw lepers who were facing certain death. Gru
bbing around among the iguanas and crocodiles, some had been reduced to cannibalism. With no other food to be found, they ate the flesh of corpses. The stench was unbearable. Such was the state of every river that flowed through the city to the sea. If I was to break through and reach the British lines, my only chance would be to follow these waterways, to wade through this water. The thought turned my stomach. What brought these wretches to seek out a final resting place by the rivers? I suspected there were rōmusha among them, people who had been sentenced to hard labour by the Japanese and who, after the capitulation, had returned to Surabaya utterly destitute. With no family left in this ravaged city, they had been unable to find food, work or shelter, and were too weak to join the ranks of the pemudas and pelopors. Plagued by hunger, disease and other hardships, they had settled on the river banks. In desperation and then resignation, they waited for death.
Guide
Around 20 November, news reached me that the Indian 5th Infantry Division had occupied the entire area north of the Sulung viaduct. That evening I locked my bedroom door and made my preparations. I kneeled before the portrait of Queen Wilhelmina that hung above my divan bed, and gazed up in veneration. ‘Your Majesty,’ I murmured, ‘I will fight for you and, if I should die, know that I died defending Your honour.’
Before going to bed, I asked God on bended knee for his protection and his blessing. I woke at two, dressed and, grabbing my cursed takeyari, set off on my nightly patrol. From the flares and the crackle of gunfire, I could tell that the battle was coming closer. As a precaution, I steered clear of Undaan Kulon that night. The street was full of posts manned by heavily armed pemudas.
The night for breaking through to the British lines came at last. Early that evening, I told Mama that I had been called away on patrol for a few days and that she was not to worry. I called at Uncle Soen’s and gave him my takeyari, my poisonous dagger and my pocket knife for safe keeping. I was dressed in nothing but a white short-sleeved shirt and a worn pair of khaki shorts. I made sure not to wear any insignia. However, I did take my wallet, which contained photographs of my parents and a document stating that my status was equivalent to that of a European.
Uncle Soen told me that the government building was under fire. The Kenpeitai headquarters in the former Palace of Justice had been reduced to rubble, the Werfstraat prison had been overrun by Punjabi and Gurkha combat troops and most of the Dutch and Indo prisoners had been freed, narrowly escaping death at the hands of the Indonesian guards, who had poisoned their food. Every single guard had been killed. The British had also taken control of the entire Chinese district on the far side of the Red Bridge.
‘Here is your escape route. Follow my instructions to the letter! Go directly to Kali Peneleh, follow the river bank and, once you have passed under Jagalan Bridge, head straight for the railway crossing at Sulung viaduct. Pass under the viaduct to the shunting yard and there you will come to a British outpost. Approach with your hands above your head and speak English. Ask the guard to take you to his commanding officer. Tell the commander all about yourself and offer your services as a guide. As soon as you leave, I will burn incense and entreat Allah to help you. I already have a feeling that you will make it through safely. The blessing of Allah be with you, my boy. Pah Tjillih will also pray for you. We are in touch by courier.’
Uncle Soen took me by the shoulders and pressed me to his chest. Midnight was not far off. I crossed Undaan kampong to Kali Peneleh. I encountered many pemudas along the way. They appeared to be on edge and I read dejection or sorrow in their faces. Fortunately none of them paid me the least attention. I saw vehicles carrying the wounded, and the sight of trucks piled with the bodies of dead pemudas filled me with satisfaction. Reaching Kali Peneleh, I went down to the riverbank, which was littered with the corpses of rōmusha and lepers. Countless iguanas and dwarf crocodiles were rooting around. The water stank terribly. I found a long stick and used it to hit out at the reptiles in my path. Here and there I had to wade up to my knees in the stinking water. I staggered under Jagalan Bridge and headed for the viaduct. It was a clear, moonless night but the sky was full of stars. Thankfully I had no trouble seeing in the dark, even at some distance. As salvos rang out between the warring parties, I walked straight through hell to the shunting yard, where a Gurkha sentry was standing guard. Not far from him, I saw clusters of soldiers firing mortar shells. I walked up to the sentry. He saw me coming from a long way off and pointed his Sten gun at me. I raised my hands and shouted, ‘I am a Dutchman! A friend!’
‘Come over here!’ he shouted back, keeping his gun trained on me all the while.
I did as he asked. Without a sound, two soldiers came up and frisked me. I showed them the photographs of my parents and asked to speak to their commander. They looked at me in surprise and said, ‘We thought you were an Indonesian.’
The two soldiers kept their distance, trying not to breathe in the stink of the river mud that clung to me. We arrived at a small building but they did not let me follow them in. After a brief interval, a British officer came out and greeted me. I showed him the photographs of my parents and told him the salient facts about myself. He ordered the two soldiers to put me in a bath and then thoroughly disinfect me. I took off my clothes, which were immediately disposed of by the soldiers.
An improvised bathing cabin had been set up at the edge of the shunting yard. I was handed a bar of soap and a towel. After a refreshing bath, I had to stand naked in a cold storage truck while one of the soldiers sprayed me with DDT. Then I was handed a set of military underwear, a British uniform with beret, a pair of woollen socks and black combat boots with ankle straps. Everything fitted me perfectly and I immediately felt like a whole new man. I slipped my wallet into one of the many pockets of my uniform and followed a couple of Punjabi soldiers back to the building I had been led to before.
This time I was granted entry. The officer handed me a mug of strong coffee and a cigarette. He offered me a seat and then questioned me. I asked to see a map of Surabaya. With the help of two NCOs he unfolded a giant, detailed map of the city and showed me the lines being held by the 5th Infantry Division. I pointed out almost all of the key pemuda contingents as far as Darmo district, relying on intelligence I had received from Uncle Soen. Then I offered my services as a guide to accompany his troops. The officer took me to the commanding officers’ quarters, where he introduced me to his direct superior.
That same night I was roaming the city streets, guiding Allied troops towards Darmo and Wonokromo. I pointed out the key positions and Gurkha soldiers gunned down at least a dozen pemudas.
When I took my leave of the Gurkha soldiers in Wonokromo, an army captain gave me a lift to Tunjungan, Surabaya’s main shopping street. There too, shops and other buildings had been reduced to rubble. Overhead tram lines lay across the road and looters were clambering over the ruins. At the crossroads with Genteng, close to what was left of the famous Whiteaway Laidlaw department store, I leapt out of the jeep, saluted and thanked the captain. He thanked me in turn for acting as their guide.
Feeling happy and fulfilled, I walked home dressed in a brown-green belted uniform with no insignia. My mother was surprised and asked where I had been all this time. I told her I had been staying with friends over in Darmo. When she asked me how I came by my uniform, I shrugged and headed for my bedroom. I undressed and lay down on my divan. Trembling with emotion and excitement, it was a long time before I fell asleep.
In the service of the AMA Police Forces
Early one morning at the start of December, I once again said goodbye to my mother. This time I put her mind at ease by telling her I was off to join the police. Dressed in a shirt and a pair of white trousers, I slipped my wallet into my back pocket and set off down Undaan Kulon past Genteng Kali to Tunjungan and then on to Embong Malang. I stopped outside the headquarters of the Allied Military Administration Police Forces – AMA for short – and stated my intention to the guard on duty. An officer came out and escorted
me to the inspector’s office. He got up from behind his desk, shook my hand and offered me a seat, before asking me all kinds of questions. Of course, I had to tell him that I was the illegitimate son of a Nolan. Though he could hardly hold that against me, he did think it tragic.
Once the paperwork was out of the way, I was issued with a police uniform and assorted equipment. My only weapon was to be a truncheon. I thought this was a joke, but kept my opinion to myself. I then walked from AMA HQ to Kaliasin, where I was given a room at the illustrious Hotel Brunet, sharing with a policeman by the name of Albert Toorop, a fair-haired Indo with a sturdy build and a retiring nature.
The next morning we lined up in front of the hotel and were marched to a field near the telephone exchange at the back of AMA HQ. Having been put through our paces by a drill instructor, we ‘native police constables’ were addressed in English by the major and chief commissioner of the British expeditionary force. A week of training in various police duties ensued, after which we were assigned to our various groups. On patrol we were accompanied by soldiers armed with Lee Enfield rifles and bayonets. But as a constable first class with the AMA Police Forces, that ridiculous truncheon was my only protection. Not surprisingly, I walked the streets feeling very uneasy indeed.
Our patrol group was assigned to southern Surabaya and environs. It was a large area and we were tasked with ridding it of subversive elements within a short period. This mainly involved nightly patrols. Our first weeks were marked by night-time gun battles with extremist groups offering stubborn resistance to the enormous firepower of the 5th Infantry Division. Occasionally, ‘native policemen’ had to accompany the Indian troops. I sometimes found myself assigned to a Gurkha platoon, at other times to a platoon made up of Punjabis and Sikhs. The Gurkhas fascinated me most. They were remarkable chaps, masters at sneaking up on the enemy and finishing them off with their kukris.
The Interpreter from Java Page 27