The Interpreter from Java

by Alfred Birney

  ‘Your statement is clear. The clerk of the court has taken note of everything you have said. I will pass judgement accordingly. You are free to go, Mr Nolan.’

  Much relieved, I left the court building, hailed a becak and rode back to Willemsoord Barracks in Darmo district.

  It later transpired that legal procedures of this kind had to be initiated for almost all Indo-Dutch, on the orders of the government in The Hague, with the aim of ensuring that as many Indos as possible would assimilate into the Indonesian population. For me, this would have been an act of high treason.

  In cahoots with the enemy

  January 1950 was nearly at an end. Almost all of my comrades had been shipped off to New Guinea and I wondered how they were getting on there. When not on duty, Ben de Lima and I could be found in the city. Our first stop was the southern district telephone exchange, more specifically the adjacent pavilion where Evelyn Preyers lived, with her sister and her sister’s fiancé. Evelyn and I were very much in love but I could not ask her to marry me. She already knew that I would soon have to leave this beautiful country. Ben de Lima had told her too much for my liking about the role I had played in the Marine Brigade Security Service, even that my name was on Sukarno’s blacklist. Often with tears in her eyes, Evelyn begged me to stay and make a new life with her. Her tears were hard to resist, and I held her close and promised her the moon. But I knew that ultimately I would have to leave her. My mother’s words of warning about falling for an Indo girl were also playing on my mind.

  Above all, my heart was still full of hatred and the desire to take revenge on the pelopors of the Indonesian Army. I was determined to fight on, if need be with one of the splinter groups that were rife in Surabaya. Of course, these were things I did not share with Ben de Lima, Harry Tjong or Jonker Laperia. I often thought back on my last conversation with Soedjono and my other old pals in that Javanese café. At the very least, I wanted to know what they were up to.

  *

  One afternoon I let Ben de Lima know that I would not be going into town with him that evening and asked him to give my regards to Evelyn. Good-hearted Ben did as I asked. Evelyn made no attempt to disguise her disappointment. She shot Ben a piercing look and asked, ‘Why isn’t Arto coming? I am worried about him. He is restless – he is hiding things from me. Is he cheating on me or is he out there courting danger again?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know, Evelyn. It’s true, he has been very evasive of late. As far as I know, there is no one else. Arto loves you deeply, but I think something is troubling him. I have often tried to get him to open up, but he avoids my questions.’

  That afternoon, unarmed and dressed in my khakis, I had a becak take me to the Javanese café where my friends Soedjono, Soekaton, Soemarsono and Soetjipto met at set times. There Soedjono introduced me to a Javanese man in a black uniform and pointed hood, who went by the name of Djojo. I eyed him suspiciously but Soedjono told me I had no cause to worry.

  ‘He is a member of Darul Islam,’ Soedjono said, ‘and he has invited us to take part in ambush raids on Indonesian Army supply columns. We need their weapons, ammunition and food supplies for our battle groups. Darul Islam and the APRA militia are one.’

  ‘How does that work?’ I asked Soedjono. ‘I don’t understand you. Ever since the Japanese occupation you have all been crying out for Merdeka. So why support APRA units bent on undermining your own Indonesian Army?’

  ‘Arto, deep in my heart I am against the policies of President Sukarno,’ Soedjono declared. ‘My sympathies lie with Muhammad Hatta. Political revenge is behind these ambush raids with Darul Islam. Soekaton, Soetjipto, Soemarsono and Soekaton are with me on this. We all come from Queen Emma School, after all. If you wish to join us, I will give you a black uniform that is easy to pull on over your Marine uniform. You will be armed with a tommy gun and a Colt pistol. What do you say?’

  After eating and drinking together, I accompanied them deeper into the unsavoury neighbourhood where two dark-blue American limos were waiting for us. Soedjono introduced me to two Javanese sitting in one of the cars. They wore the emblem of Darul Islam, the head of a bison in a red circle.

  We drove at high speed through the city centre towards Dapuan and stopped outside a hovel where a number of Chinese and Indonesians were snorting opium. There we put on black uniforms. Djojo lifted a few planks from the wooden floor and handed round weapons and ammunition. The plan was to take out all of the men on the supply column and seize control of the vehicles and their cargo. I was introduced to yet more Indonesians. Together we formed a group around fifteen strong.

  After dark, we set off in three big American cars, first towards Grissee and then on to Lamongan. Between these two towns, the Indonesian Army ran supply columns at set times. The aim was to spring an ambush between Lamongan and Deket, an ideal stretch of road lined with trees and dense undergrowth.

  At a suitable spot, we steered our cars onto the verge, camouflaged them with leaves and branches and took cover in the bushes, waiting until we heard the low hum of engines in the distance. One of the Darul Islam fighters quickly smeared his face and forearms with chicken blood that he had wrapped in greaseproof paper and folded in a banana leaf, so it looked like he had been seriously injured in a gun battle. More blood was spattered on the asphalt and he lay down in the middle of the road.

  The column consisted of a jeep occupied by four Indonesian soldiers, followed by four Chevrolet trucks, each with two men in the cabin and three or four armed men riding in the back. The beams of the jeep’s headlights hit our decoy and he groaned for help. The column stopped and all the men got out or jumped from the back of their trucks to take a look. That was our cue to open fire. Within seconds not a man was left standing. Every last one lay dead on or at the side of the road. Our group wasted no time manning the vehicles. Then we split up. Djojo travelled back to Surabaya with me, Soedjono and his driver in one of the big American cars.

  A few days later, we met again at a contact address somewhere in Dapuan district. I was surprised to see defectors from the KNIL among the group. The weapons handed out to us had been obtained in raids on Indonesian Army depots. That night we employed the same simple tactics on the road between Jombang and Ngimbang, seizing a column of three Dodge trucks and a Master jeep. All of the occupants were killed. Days later we carried out an identical ambush on a column between Mojokerto and Krian.

  And so it was that I found myself fighting alongside mutinous officers of the Indonesian Army I hated so deeply, officers who sympathized with the APRA militia and Darul Islam. Oddly, it felt good to be reunited with my old school friends, as if we were back fighting the Japs. But when they asked me to take part in operations near Westerbuitenweg and Ujung, I refused. Knowing our navy was still based there, I asked my newfound brothers-in-arms not to go ahead with their plans.

  One evening I joined a twelve-man ambush of an Indonesian Army munitions depot in Grissee. The raid was child’s play. We piled onto two large trucks, drove up to the entrance and opened fire with our automatic weapons. Within minutes, every last guard had been riddled with bullets. I was back in my element and dearly hoped to find that bastard Jan Abas among the dead. I was still determined to finish him off. We managed to load almost all the weapons, ammunition and grenades from the depot onto our trucks, except for the rapid-fire guns, which were too heavy. Tired and fulfilled, we returned to Dapuan. At the contact address, I shed my black Darul Islam uniform and went to a local restaurant with Soekaton and Soedjono. I returned to Willemsoord Barracks around midnight, sanctimoniously sporting my khaki dress uniform.

  The following day I left the barracks early, without a word to Ben de Lima or my other mates. At the end of Jambistraat, I took a becak to Dapuan, where Soekaton lived. To my surprise, I was met by his little sister Kartini. Soekaton had just left. Kartini was roughly two years younger than I was. She looked absolutely beautiful. Before I knew what was happening, she had pulled me over to a quiet corner of the porch and kissed
me full on the lips.

  ‘Hey, what’s all this about?’ I asked her softly. ‘Where are your parents? What if they see us?’

  ‘I love you, Nolan,’ Kartini murmured solemnly and continued to hold me close. Then she bundled me over to a rattan bench and just about welded her body to mine. Once again, my feelings got the better of me, and I had no idea what to do with myself. That Indonesian girl’s loving ways were like nothing I had ever experienced. For a while she even drove all thoughts of Evelyn from my mind. Soekaton returned before long, and grinned from ear to ear when he saw his little sister Kartini so close to me and so clearly in love.

  ‘Hello, Nolan, Arto!’ Soekaton called out. ‘It does me a power of good to see how much Kartini loves you. For years I have told her and my parents all about you. You are so very different to most Indos. They are arrogant and lord it over us Indonesians but you, Arto, have always treated us as equals. You are more like a brother to me, and not only to me but to Soedjono, Soetjipto and the others. We all love you. Behind your hard exterior as a fighter, you conceal a kind nature. Many people do not see you for who you are, but my little sister succeeds where they have failed. She has laid her soul bare and I ask you not to disappoint her.’

  His words struck me as too much of a good thing. As if that wasn’t enough, Soekaton continued to lavish praise on me. With a mixture of pride and awe, he told his sister how I had gone into battle the previous night at the munitions depot in Grissee. While everyone had ducked for cover as they shot at the guards, I had charged forwards with my tommy gun blazing. None of the others had shown such contempt for death.

  Soekaton tried to convince me to accept Indonesian nationality and marry his sister. I did not want to offend him, so I kept him guessing. As long as I was with him or his family, my feelings for his sister ran deep. But as soon as I left, I did my best to forget Kartini. Not only did I still have Evelyn, but I also had to keep fighting and remain loyal to the House of Orange at all costs, even if it meant my downfall. Once a marine, always a marine.

  I stayed in touch with my Indonesian friends. We had fought side by side under the Japanese occupation, and that meant something. We knew where we stood with one another. Day after day, I wrestled with my conflicting emotions. I had sent countless Indonesian freedom fighters to Valhalla, yet I still had many friends among those same freedom fighters. It was nothing short of inner turmoil. To defect to the Indonesian Army would be to commit high treason towards the Netherlands. That was something I could not countenance. If my number was up, I would die as a marine, not as a traitor. My participation in the Darul Islam attacks had been fuelled by the hope of gunning down the traitors and defectors among former members of the Marine Brigade Security Service.

  My mother’s parting shot

  One afternoon as I was signing out with the duty officer to head into the city, I was accosted by two military policemen, who ordered me to accompany them. I had no idea what it could be about. They took me to their commanding officer, who in turn referred me to Major Veenhuizen. ‘So, Nolan,’ he said after a cordial greeting, ‘I have some damnable news. You are to come with me for an audience with the Commander of Naval Forces. Apparently the admiral has a bone to pick with you.’

  Completely at a loss, I accompanied the major to the office of the Commander of Naval Forces. We entered the room and the blood drained from my face… Opposite the admiral sat my own mother, her gaze more forbidding than I had ever seen it.

  I sprang to attention. The admiral turned to me. ‘Nolan,’ he said, adopting the severest of tones, ‘as you can see, your mother has paid me a visit. She has lodged a personal complaint about you and testifies that you have taken part in raids on Indonesian Army transports and depots, carried out by APRA and Darul Islam. Is this true? You are addressing your most senior commander, so lie at your peril!’

  Mama spoke. ‘One of your Ambonese friends came to see me. He told me you have been taking part in ambushes and gun battles with the Indonesian Army, even though a peace agreement has been signed. Arto, you know I cannot stand for this. You have to listen to me! I want you to leave and find yourself a good future in Holland as soon as possible. I have always opposed your overwhelming urge to fight. And now it must end, once and for all.’

  ‘Right then, Nolan,’ the admiral resumed, ‘what’s it going to be: twenty years behind bars or a bullet for desertion? The choice is yours. Speak up, man!’

  ‘Admiral,’ I answered, ‘it is true that I took part in raids on Indonesian Army transports at Mojokerto, Jombang and Ngimbang and attacks on depots in Grissee and Lamongan. I acted out of frustration. We have had to stand down on all fronts. It feels like cowardice. I cannot bear the thought that we have lost so many of our fellow soldiers for nothing, while many former members of the Marine Brigade Security Service have defected to the enemy. They have betrayed us, sold us down the river. Surely that is unconscionable?’

  ‘I cannot argue with your conclusion,’ the admiral replied, ‘but you are still a marine under military discipline. When you are ordered to lower the flag, you are expected to follow that order. I understand you, Nolan. You darkies are damned good fighters, but orders are there to be followed. On this occasion, I will let you off with a warning. But from now on you will only leave the barracks in the company of two or three of your fellow marines, and you will refrain from every unnecessary show of force, unless compelled to defend yourself. As for you, Veenhuizen, keep a close watch on our man Nolan here. And pass on this order to every commander who has anything to do with him. I will now continue my conversation with his mother. Nolan, dismissed!’

  A Dutch subject

  Not long after my refusal to adopt Indonesian nationality, I went to the government building on Pasar Besar to apply for a passport. A charming Indo girl at the counter was there to help me.

  ‘You require a passport for the Netherlands, Mr Nolan?’ she asked sweetly.

  ‘I do indeed, Miss. Here is the court’s statement regarding the matter of my nationality.’

  ‘Oh, but Mr Nolan,’ the girl replied, ‘I see here that you have refused Indonesian nationality. Why, Sir? I have chosen to accept warga negara. A bright future awaits me here, as an Indonesian citizen. My father is an Indo and a member of the Indo-European Alliance. He has told me all kinds of terrible things about the Dutch government and the colonial administration in the Indies.’

  I had no desire to discuss my future with the daughter of a defector and asked the girl to help me obtain a passport for the Netherlands as quickly as possible. A few days later I received word that my passport was ready for collection. At the same time, Ben de Lima, Harry Rijckaerdt, Jonker Laperia and I were asked to report to the Red Cross on Tunjungan to pick up winter clothing ahead of our voyage.

  Our first stop was the government building. I went up to one of the desks and a female civil servant handed me my passport. The cover was green, not blue, and inside it gave my status as ‘Dutch subject’. In other words, I was still not officially a Dutch national. All I could do was shrug indifferently.

  The three of us then headed to the Red Cross for our winter clothes. The whole building was buzzing. A few helpful ladies took our measurements from head to toe, and once they had our sizes we were all issued with two long-sleeved undershirts, two sets of long johns, three shirts and a thick pair of black woollen trousers. We took one look at the underwear and burst out laughing. Other Indos began laughing too. ‘Ghost suits’ we called them, those comical long-sleeved undershirts and underpants that reached all the way to our ankles. Suits and overcoats were not in stock, so we had to do without. Lastly, we were all handed two scarves. We left the building in high spirits and went over to the Marines Club for a drink.

  Back at barracks, I ran into the senior NCO and showed him my passport. He almost choked on his anger. ‘Fucking hell,’ he burst out, ‘how can those swines not give you Dutch nationality? You are in the service of the Royal Navy, you are under military discipline. You are a Dutchman, dam
n it! In the eyes of the entire navy you are a Dutchman. Are those fucking idiots fucking— How the fuck— Oh, fuck the fucking lot of them!’

  Springtime in Holland

  The year was 1950. The date was 21 March. Someone told me it was the first day of spring in Holland. I had no idea what spring was. Early in the morning, I went to the mess with Ben de Lima, where we spotted Harry Rijckaerdt and Jonker Laperia. There we sat, the last human remains of the Marine Brigade Security Service, awaiting repatriation to the Netherlands. We exchanged sympathetic looks and said little more than ‘good morning’, each of us lost in his own thoughts. We had been granted permission to leave the compound and say our last goodbyes. Our final departure from the homeland had been set for the following day. Our trunks had already been carted off to Tanjung Perak and lay in the hold of a troop ship called the Great Bear.

  After breakfast, Ben de Lima and I left for our final round of farewells. We signed out, walked down Jambistraat and hailed ourselves a becak. Our first stop was a house on Darmo Boulevard, home to Ben de Lima’s sisters. Brotherly and sisterly advice was exchanged, messages were relayed. When it came time to part, many a tear was shed. It made me miserable. I embraced Ben’s sisters and walked teary-eyed back to the street in search of a becak. By this time it was late morning and the hot sun felt good on the crown of my head.

  Ben de Lima and I then paid one last visit to the cemetery at Kembang Kuning. Barely able to contain our emotions, we walked past the graves of the fallen, many of them our mates. We paused at each headstone and prayed for a moment. I left Ben waiting at the gates to the military section, hurried over to my father’s grave a short distance away and took my leave of him with a murmured prayer.

  In silence, Ben de Lima and I walked down the driveway to the cemetery entrance and back to Darmo Boulevard. We got into a becak and continued our farewell tour, heading for Heemskerkstraat in Undaan Kulon district. Unfortunately Ella and Poppy were at work, but Mama was home.