The Interpreter from Java

by Alfred Birney

  It was October. I spent most of my time at the barracks and ate in the mess. Late one afternoon, I signed out with the duty officer and, fully armed and dressed in my utility uniform, I set off on my bike for the city centre. All the lads on duty and in internal services knew of my mission. ‘If you need back-up, just give us a sign,’ they assured me. ‘We’re spoiling for a fight.’

  The home of my mate Jan Kraai was my first port of call. He and his family lived on the edge of town near Ujung district, where all kinds of secret routes used by Indonesian infiltrators converged. As the crow flies, it was a distance of round five miles. I took my time to make sure that I arrived after dark. Even so, I was sweating profusely and stopped along the way for a few refreshing glasses of ice with grated coconut.

  I arrived at Jan’s door around six-thirty in the evening, puffing and panting in the heat. Night had fallen but he saw me arrive and came out to meet me. I dismounted and got straight to the point. ‘Jan, I have terrible news. You and your family have to leave immediately. I have orders to help you evacuate. Here is a copy of a death list given to me by Lieutenant Knegtmans. Read for yourself, your name is on it.’

  Jan’s eyes scanned the list and he turned pale.

  ‘But Arto,’ he cried in despair, ‘how can I? I live here with my mother and my wife’s aunt. They’re too old for all this, man. You can’t just drag them along. And even if we make it to safety, what then?’

  ‘Come on, Jan, there is no time to waste. Let’s go inside and I will discuss things with your family.’

  Jan gathered everyone in the dining room and left the talking to me.

  ‘Ladies, children, as I told Jan here, I have come to help you all evacuate. We must leave now. Begin packing immediately. You will travel with me to Willemsoord Barracks in Darmo, where you will be housed in a large army tent. Take only the pots and pans you need. Furniture and bulky possessions must be left behind. If you stay here, your lives will be in danger. A number of former interpreters and their families have been found murdered, their possessions looted or destroyed by fire. So hurry up and pack. Jan and I will go out to hire a bunch of dokars.’

  The women and children were unable to hold back their tears but they did as they were told. I turned to Jan. ‘Did you know that Jan Abas and Freddie Onsoe have defected? Abas has betrayed the entire Marine Brigade intel system to the Indonesian top brass and now he is leading a death squad. They have already come looking for me at my mother’s house. I plan to give those bastards hell when I get the chance, because I know they will be back. I have friends in the APRA militia.’

  Jan looked horrified. ‘Bloody hell, I would never have expected that of Jan and Freddie. Can I join you?’

  ‘No, Jan,’ I answered resolutely. ‘You have your wife and children to think of. The night before last, Ong Thwan Hien and his whole family were massacred and their house was razed to the ground. Wim Rompas and his family have been killed too, though I have no pity for Rompas. He was a Kenpeitai informer under the Japs.’

  Jan and I were only able to hire six dokars. We packed them full of people and possessions. I got on my bike and led the caravan through the quiet, dimly lit streets to Willemsoord Barracks. At the barrier I said a hasty goodbye and cycled to Dinoyo kampong, where Wim Soemajow lived. It was almost eleven by the time I arrived and the whole house was in darkness. I knocked on the front door. Wim’s face was puffy with sleep when he finally answered.

  ‘Jesus, Nolan!’

  ‘Wim,’ I said resolutely, ‘I have come to fetch you and your family. Now, this minute! Your lives are in danger! Former interpreters and their families have been murdered. Their homes have been looted and torched. I have orders to evacuate you and take you to Willemsoord Barracks.’

  Suddenly Wim Soemajow was wide awake.

  ‘My God, Arto!’ he cried. ‘I live here alone with my wife. She is asleep. We have no children.’

  ‘In that case, wake her. Tell her to pack your bags while we arrange transport.’

  While his wife gathered the bare essentials, Wim and I went in search of dokars. We found three. Just as we were loading the baggage, revolver shots rang out at close range. I grabbed my M1, ordered Wim and his wife to run inside, and crept round to the back of his house. I saw three shadows prowling, aimed my gun and fired. Two of them fell and I heard a loud groan coming from the third. Then came the sound of more voices and at least ten hooded figures appeared.

  Seeing in a flash that they were Indonesian soldiers, I reached for a hand grenade, bit on the detonator ring and pulled out the pin. I lobbed the grenade among the pointed black hoods. An almighty blast was followed by screams and groans. Down the road, I saw a kampong house go up in flames and took cover in Wim Soemajow’s house.

  ‘Do you know whose house is burning?’ I asked.

  ‘It belonged to an informer for the Netherlands Forces Intelligence Service. But he’s long gone, as far as I know.’

  ‘Jesus, Wim!’ I burst out. ‘This place is crawling with infiltrators. You and your wife have to hurry. Where do the Madjoe brothers and the Bolang brothers live?’

  ‘Keputran kampong, near Dinoyo. Why? Do you have to pick them up too?’

  ‘Of course I do, man! Tell you what, Wim. I’ll see you safely to Darmo Boulevard first. From there you can find your own way to the barracks. Then I’ll hurry over to Keputran kampong and collect the brothers and their families.’

  We had barely left Wim’s house when more shots rang out. Minutes later, fire began licking the walls. Wim and his wife had tears in their eyes as they watched their home go up in flames. While their dokars rode on, I leaned my bike against a lamppost, took my rifle from my shoulder and grabbed another hand grenade. A mob of pelopors had formed in front of the burning house, egging each other on. I tossed the grenade among the rabble, aimed my M1 at anyone running towards me and shot to kill. Then I turned and ran, grabbed my bike, slung my rifle over my shoulder and cycled at full speed to catch up with Wim and his small column of dokars.

  At the crossroads of Darmo Boulevard and Coen Boulevard, I called to Wim and his wife to ride on to the barracks. I turned off towards Keputran and went in search of the houses where the Madjoe and Bolang brothers lived. There too, I had to bang on doors to wake them, order them to pack, hire dokars and lead them back to Willemsoord Barracks. It was three in the morning by the time I arrived at the barrier with this third column. The marines on duty escorted the brothers and their families to one of the army tents.

  *

  Night after night I set off, fetching more former interpreters and their families from their homes and escorting them to the barracks. I eventually succeeded in tracking down most of the Marine Brigade’s interpreters and bringing them to safety.

  One evening, however, I decided to seek out the traitor Jan Abas and his cronies. I asked the quartermaster to issue me with a Colt .45. That impressive pistol soon lay heavy in my hand, along with four cartridge clips; eight bullets per clip, forty shots in total. This time I left my bike and took a becak to the city centre. The driver dropped me amid the bustle of Tunjungan. Mingling with the crowds of shoppers, I saw drunken Dutch servicemen staggering across the street, blaring that all was lost now they had to sail for home. I spotted Indonesian soldiers too. Thankfully, they were unarmed.

  I walked the full length of Tunjungan, heading south towards Simpang. I peered into almost every shop, café and restaurant, but there was no sign of the traitor Jan Abas.

  But I did meet a member of his death squad. I asked him if he knew Abas. His face lit up and, beaming with pride, he told me how he had executed marine informers on Abas’s orders. I smiled and told him how right he was. Then I invited him to take a walk with me, as I was keen to know more about the reprisals he had carried out.

  We were not far from the Marines Club. Across the street, an alley called Gang Butteweg ran down the side of the Aurora department store to Blauran, another shopping street. We entered the dark alley and I let the young man walk
ahead, bragging all the while about how he planned to murder pro-Belanda elements. I drew my Colt pistol. He glanced back and I registered the surprise on his face as I shot him between the eyes. He fell backwards like a dead weight. I looked at my watch. It was almost midnight.

  I walked back to Tunjungan, hailed a becak and returned to barracks, cursing my luck at not having found Abas himself. The next evening, I cycled all the way to Sawahan, the district where I had lived as a child. By chance I saw the Lodz brothers walking down the street. Bert and André Lodz turned out to have contacts with APRA, an underground guerrilla group which often operated under the guise of Darul Islam and fought against both Dutch and Indonesian forces. I gave the Lodz brothers the details and antecedents of Jan Abas and his death squad, and asked them to kill those bastards on sight.

  Bert Lodz told me at length how APRA groups had carried out armed assaults on Indonesian Army supply transports and ammunition depots. He asked me if I was interested in joining these raids from time to time. It would mean putting on a Darul Islam uniform over my Marine uniform and donning a pointed black hood. It sounded to me like the raids had been inspired by the ruthless hardline tactics employed by the Special Forces Corps headed by Captain Westerling of the KNIL. Without committing myself, I kept the option open. I first had to give it some serious thought, not least because I was back under military discipline. It was quite a dilemma. I relished the chance to fight on against the Indonesian Army, but I was for Queen and Country while APRA backed a federalist Republic of Indonesia and opposed the Indonesian Army as the military apparatus of Sukarno’s dictatorship.

  It was mid-December and the Dutch government in The Hague was immersed in talks on the final transfer of sovereignty to Indonesia and the consequences this would bring. Former interpreters and informers of the Marine Brigade continued to arrive at the tent camp at Willemsoord Barracks with their families in tow, but we also received reports of former intelligence contacts who had been murdered. Our senior officers continued to come up with new rescue operations, in which I was deployed along with others. Often we arrived to find houses burned to the ground and charred bodies among the ruins. The death squads sent out by the Indonesian top brass were thorough in their reprisals. They spared nothing and no one, not even pets or caged birds. Everything was hacked to pieces and set alight.

  Farewell to my brothers

  Cor Matagora, a friend who served with the KNIL, had once introduced me to his mother, brother and sisters. They lived at No. 96 Simpang Dukuh. To reach their home, you had to take a narrow path that led off Simpang, around the back of the main thoroughfare. This made it a good place to lay low and Mother Matagora had offered me her help. She understood why I hid so many things from my own mother and occasionally she would let me spend the night after my perilous wanderings in the city, tracking down defectors and spies working for the Indonesian top brass.

  Mrs Matagora helped me arrange a meeting with my brothers at her home. Her daughter Marie brought Jacob and Karel to the house, and Mrs Matagora joined us at the bare dining table. I looked my brothers in the eye and began to speak. ‘Jacob and Karel, I have asked you here because it is the last time I will be able to see you. As you know, I will soon be leaving. I am going to Holland, where an uncertain future awaits me. But more importantly, you know that I have always supported Mama financially, as is the custom in the Indies. When I am gone, I will no longer be able to fulfil this role. Mama is as much your mother as she is mine, so show your love and give her what you can!’

  My brothers’ eyes were wet with tears. After a moment’s hesitation, Jacob spoke first. ‘Arto, it is a great pity that you will soon have to leave us for good. But I promise you that I will help Mama. I mistreated you as a boy, but it has made you the brave man you are today. God bless you, Arto.’

  Then Karel said, ‘Arto, I will miss you terribly. I too mistreated you in the past. But at least now you have become a strapping lad. You are a brave marine, something of which I can be very proud. I too will try to help Mama now and then.’

  After coffee and biscuits, I said farewell to my brothers. We embraced. There was not much to be said by way of goodbye. But at least there was no more hatred and resentment between us. They left the house and I walked with them as far as Simpang, where I bade them farewell once more. Everything inside me hurt. It was all I could do to maintain my composure. Hanging my head, I returned to the Matagora family home and fell sobbing into Mother Matagora’s arms.

  Choices

  Christmas was fast approaching. I continued to head out from Willemsoord Barracks every evening, often in the company of Ben de Lima. One evening, I set off with an interpreter by the name of Preyers. He wanted to introduce me to his sisters, who lived next door to the southern district telephone exchange on Kaliasin. His elder sister was courting an army man and was expecting his child. With his younger sister Evelyn, it was love at first sight. She was single, a pretty girl with a sweet face and a gentle nature. She took the initiative almost every step of the way. I was consumed by doubt, constantly weighing my options. Pending repatriation to Holland, I was roaming the city like a hunted animal, still hoping to settle scores with defectors and traitors, and I worried that my love for Evelyn might leave me soft-hearted and weak. Yet being with her was bliss, so much so that I had to tear myself from her arms.

  Ben de Lima also started courting. A friend of Evelyn’s, by the name of Jo Petten, won him over with her charms. These amorous escapades caused me to lose touch with reality. From a double agent, I received word that a Marine corporal had defected to the Indonesian Navy. I went to report this fact to Piet Dikotta the next morning at barracks, but he was nowhere to be found. His rooms were empty.

  I bumped into Major Veenhuizen, who had since been promoted from captain, and inquired after Piet. The major looked at me in surprise. ‘But Nolan,’ he answered, ‘I thought you knew. Piet Dikotta and his family have already left. They boarded an American transport ship yesterday, bound for the Netherlands. He went looking for you before they embarked. Nolan, it has not escaped my notice that you go into the city night after night. Be careful.’

  ‘Thank you for your concern, Major Veenhuizen,’ I replied, and felt a surge of relief now that no ill could befall Piet Dikotta in Surabaya.

  *

  The exodus of most of the former Marine Brigade Security Service personnel bound for New Guinea began on Christmas Eve 1949. The transition camp for former intel personnel and their families was a hive of activity. Everyone was busy packing and preparing for the voyage. They were due to leave Willemsoord Barracks that evening, under cover of darkness. A great many trucks, including the Marine Brigade’s Tapeworm Express, had been commissioned. Everyone said their goodbyes with the hope of meeting again in a dim and distant future. It felt unreal to be taking leave of so many of my intel comrades.

  Escorted by countless Military Police in jeeps and on motorbikes, the column wound its way to the naval docks at Ujung. There a couple of ships lay at anchor, ready to take the evacuees to New Guinea where, after arriving in Hollandia, they would be dispersed across the island. My heart went out to those boys and their families as they set sail for a destination unknown to them.

  *

  Four members of the Marine Brigade Security Service stayed behind: Ben de Lima, Harry Rijckaerdt, Jonker Laperia and me. None of us knew which transport ship would give us passage to the Netherlands.

  New Year’s Day 1950 had only just come and gone when I was summoned to the office of Major Veenhuizen of the Marine Corps. I sprang to attention, saluted stiffly and reported for duty. The major offered me a seat.

  ‘I say, Nolan,’ he began, ‘I have here a summons of sorts for you to appear in court regarding the possibility of Indonesian citizenship. I suspect that it has come from our government in The Hague, but I can’t say I understand it exactly. You are serving in the Dutch Royal Navy, after all, and that makes you a Dutch citizen. Why you should have to opt for Indonesian nationality under th
ese circumstances is beyond me. All these years you have fought against all things Indonesian. Anyway, here is your summons. Go there, in uniform of course, and fight your case. I wish you every success, Nolan, and if you should find yourself in a bind, legally speaking, ask for a postponement and return here so that I can arrange for a Navy lawyer to accompany you to the next hearing. There’s something fishy about all this.’

  *

  On the appointed day, 20 January 1950, I appeared before a judge by the name of Hampel. He was a mild-mannered, friendly man, with the air of a contented Indo about him.

  ‘Mr Nolan,’ he began, ‘I have before me a document sent by the Dutch government in The Hague asking you whether or not you wish to accept Indonesian nationality. You have, after all, been born and raised in this country by parents who have their roots here. You have received a good education, not to mention military training. In the newly founded Republic of Indonesia, we will have need of men like you, from both a social and a political perspective. You can count on every possible support from our political leaders. What is your answer?’

  ‘Your honour, I have fought against your people. I have been tortured, starved, humiliated and trampled underfoot. I cannot and do not wish to accept Indonesian citizenship. My answer must therefore be no, Your Honour. I do not wish to become an Indonesian. I am a marine, as you can see, not a traitor. Since boyhood I have pledged allegiance to the Royal House of the Netherlands. I am loyal to the House of Orange and will remain so. I have fought for Queen and Country and will soon set sail for my fatherland, and that is the Netherlands. While I have been born and raised in this land, I do not feel at home here, however strange that may sound. Whenever the Netherlands calls on me to take up arms, I will do so.’