Under the Java Moon, page 13
Rita frowned. Why shouldn’t they lock the door?
“Maybe not to the Japanese troops,” Mama said, “but to me it does.”
Oma simply nodded. Mama fetched her bicycle, and although Rita was too small to ride it, she was happy to have it along. With Georgie trailing after them, his pillowcase that contained some of his favorite things now stuffed in the pram, they joined Aunt Tie at the edge of the yard.
That’s when Rita saw it. A parade—no, a procession—of people and soldiers. Pushing carts of stacked suitcases as they rattled on the cobblestones, carrying boxes and bags, and walking along with their families. The Japanese soldiers walked the perimeter of the road, carrying their rifles.
Rita recognized some of the people—neighbors and friends of theirs. Olga Slingerland, who was Georgie’s age, walked along with her mother. And Corrie Van der Hurk, who was a year older than Rita. Corrie’s gaze met Rita’s. She’d recently gone to her friend’s birthday party.
“Everyone has to move?” Georgie said in his innocent voice.
Rita might have known this somewhere in the back of her mind, but to see such a large group of people moving together, made her realize that this wasn’t going to be a simple adventure. Where would everyone sleep? What would they eat? Where were all the fathers and the men?
Johan had said the men needed to go, too. So, were they already gone now?
Rita looked up at her mother. Her face was expressionless as she watched the approaching group. Was she worried? Scared? What should Rita feel?
Oma’s expression was somber, and Aunt Tie’s mouth was pulled into a frown.
The Vos family moved over to Rita’s yard, and the group of them stood together. They watched the procession pass by them—the women, the boys, the girls, the babies . . . all moving forward together.
“Is everyone with you?” one of the Japanese officers asked in Dutch. It was the same man who’d come to their house.
“Everyone’s here,” Mama said.
The officer eyed their suitcases and cot. “Time to go.”
Sweat had gathered at Rita’s neck. She wanted to sit in the shade, or better yet, climb the mango tree and sit among the cool, fragrant leaves. She didn’t want to walk in a crowd of people with the hot sun beating on their heads and backs.
But she would go where her family went. Her gaze cut to Johan. For once, he didn’t look like he had all the answers. He stared at the crowd of people in wonder. Greta was keeping her eyes averted. Maybe she was worried about being caught as a twelve-year-old girl pretending to be a ten-year-old boy?
Rita wanted to ask her, but now wasn’t the time.
When Mama saw Mrs. Venema and her girls nearing them, she said, “Let’s go.”
So Rita hoisted her suitcase and followed her family out onto the road.
Chapter Thirteen
“There were men with tropical ulcers. This condition is unstoppable, and it eats away at the flesh until the bones are exposed. Victims had open wounds, crawling with maggots, which had to be scraped out, washed, and bound with clean rags. That was just about the best care available for this disease, apart from amputations, which were done only as a last resort.”
—Andrew A. Van Dyk, Cihapit Camp
George
After seeing the deaths of his comrades, a torpedoed minesweeper, and days of endless sea, George shouldn’t have been disturbed by the sight of festering wounds. But he felt so helpless, for his own wounds and his comrades’. Even though Van Beek—a hospital attendant’s mate—was with their group and had plenty of medical knowledge, they didn’t have any medications to treat their wounds, many of which had turned septic and were maggot-infested.
Mulder had taken to groaning in his sleep. The wounds on his back had turned septic, and the only real treatment was dipping in the sea again to drown the maggots. Other men were in equally bad shape. George knew that their group couldn’t continue on like this, day after day.
They’d returned to the adjacent island and pilfered the rest of the goods on the Marula lifeboat, so at least they had more supplies. Those wouldn’t last long. Vos had discovered an underwater trap full of fish, which they ate some of. But their fish drying experiment hadn’t worked—the humidity was too high—and they’d had to throw the rest out.
The men relocated to the small bamboo hut where they could at least take shelter from the sun—although there wasn’t enough room for them to be in there all together.
So Rouwenhorst organized another expedition to discover if there were any other food or supply sources. George took part, even though he had to use a walking stick to take some of the pressure off his injured foot. As they scoured the island, they looked for signs of previous occupation. Bakker stopped when they could see the most southerly island, named Peoloe Sebaroe. “I think there’s a boat over there—a lifeboat.”
“Another one?” Vos said.
Swimming actually brought relief to George’s foot, although it was temporary. The lifeboat turned out to be from the Marula as well. And this one was fully stocked. They once again hauled supplies back to their original island.
The search party spread out after that, more confident now. They’d been on the island for several days, and there’d been no sign of rescue from the Allies or any Indonesians; but also, they hadn’t been spotted by the Japanese military either. Whenever a plane passed overhead, they took shelter beneath the nearest palm trees. Every time, the plane had been Japanese.
When they discovered a large, abandoned bamboo hut that was part of a coconut plantation, Rouwenhorst asked Bakker to do the first inspection.
A couple of moments later, he came out of the hut. “It’s huge inside,” he declared. “Plenty of room for everyone. There’s furniture too.”
George headed inside with the commander and Vos as the other men explored the exterior.
Sure enough, tables, chairs, rugs, and beds furnished the place. George walked into the kitchen area and began to open cupboards. The sight of coffee and tea greeted him. In the lower cupboards, there were pots, pans, and crockery.
Vos walked around, as if in a daze, praising the Lord.
Without delay, Rouwenhorst set to work, organizing the men into groups to scour the plantation, to work on making tea and coffee for everyone, and to look for any medical supplies. George was put in charge of seeing that the coffee and tea were divided into equal portions. Once that was completed, Rouwenhorst’s next orders came: “Vischer, take some men and see what else this plantation has to offer.”
George headed outside, using his cane. Up ahead, he spotted six kampong huts. Each one was empty. As he and a few of the men explored, they found abandoned supplies in each.
This was good—all good. George paused where he stood in the center of one of the huts. “Thank you,” he murmured. To whom, he didn’t specify, but he felt he needed to express his gratitude.
He still wanted to be home. He and his comrades all needed medical treatment, but in this space, and in this moment, he could appreciate their good fortune.
The rumbling sounds of planes from a distance brought George back to the reality of their situation. They weren’t in the clear, not by far. But they’d been granted a reprieve. He crossed to the window to see that the men outside had moved beneath palm trees, taking cover, until the Japanese bombers passed the islands.
George tried to reason with the foreboding that had crept into his chest when he thought of those planes dropping bombs on his home island. Java was most likely already occupied, so there was no reason for additional bombing. He wanted to firmly believe that his wife and children were safe in their home. He had to believe that. Or else the agony of mind would be too great.
When the sky was silent again, George headed out of the hut. He continued toward the larger hut just as Rouwenhorst called a meeting with everyone.
Once they’d all gathered inside, and the men were sampling the coffee, Rouwenhorst said, “We’ve been fortunate to find more supplies and food. Yet our days are numbered with such limited rations. As we wait here, Japan is taking over more and more of the East Indies. We don’t know what’s going on with our families, but we can hope they are safe and well.” He paused and scanned the men surrounding him. “Our biggest enemy has become our festering wounds. With no medical supplies, I worry that things will get worse.”
Many of the men nodded. Mulder dropped his head into his hands.
“I’m proposing a very strict rationing system,” Rouwenhorst said. “We have no way of knowing how long we’ll be here. The Dutch navy has probably marked us for dead, so we need to accept the fact that no purposeful rescue will be coming. And I’m sure none of us want to be captured by Japan.”
A visible shudder ran through the men.
Rouwenhorst continued. “We’ll stay in our smaller groups and rotate duties. We all have to be vigilant about staying out of sight. Not only from the sky, but from possible passing Japanese vessels.”
All heads nodded. This had already been agreed upon, but a reminder was needed. Over the past day or so, some of the men hadn’t been as quick to take cover.
“First up, we’ll transfer all of our supplies near the beach to here,” Rouwenhorst said, his gaze scanning the group. “We don’t want any of our supplies or containers left visible.”
As they set to work, and George made the trek back to the main beach, his thoughts kept plaguing him. How long could they survive on this island? How long until the war was over? They were surrounded by Japanese soldiers on all sides. Something had to give eventually.
The following morning, George awoke in a bed he shared with Vos. The man was snoring lightly, but that wasn’t what had awakened George. He wasn’t sure if his mind had ever fully shut down to sleep. He sat up in bed and shifted off, then he limped to the window that opened to a stretch of the coconut plantation. The sky had lightened with the rising sun but was still a dove gray.
Calculating quickly in his head, he knew it was Friday, March 13. They’d been missing for nearly a fortnight. George wasn’t a superstitious man, and he didn’t believe that Friday the thirteenth was a day of misfortunes, but he’d heard a couple of comments from the men last night about it.
Today, he decided, he’d keep extra busy with tasks to keep his mind preoccupied. It was only a date on the calendar, after all. First up, they needed to find other things to eat. Coconuts went only so far, and some of the men had been sick yesterday. One had spent all day sleeping. That didn’t bode well.
George closed his eyes as a wave of dizziness passed through him. He’d just awakened, and already he wanted to sit back down. Instead, he braced a hand on the wall and ran through the rations in his mind. Should he talk to Rouwenhorst about cutting back again?
“Is it time to go on watch?” Vos murmured behind him.
George turned. The man’s hair stuck up at all angles, and his beard was coming in auburn. All the men had short beards now, including George. “Almost.”
Vos moved to his feet. Then he walked out of the small bedroom and into the kitchen where George assumed he’d make some coffee, or drink some coconut milk.
George’s stomach growled in anticipation.
Over the past few mornings, Rouwenhorst had assigned a rotating group of men to watch the channel between the islands for native fishermen. None had been spotted yet, but George still hoped.
He found Vos in the kitchen making coffee. It was a luxury that wouldn’t last long. Still, George gratefully accepted the cup offered by Vos and enjoyed every sip of the roasted flavor.
Soon, three other men joined them, including Bakker.
They trekked outside as the sun’s first rays spilled across the vast horizon. The sight was beautiful, but the absolutely clear skies above foreboded a hot and languorous day. They traipsed along a path that was becoming well-worn with use to the shoreline. There, they paused beneath the edging palms. The men crouched where they stood and watched in silence.
Mornings weren’t for conversation, but for reflection, and George was fine with that.
“Look,” Bakker suddenly said.
George shifted his gaze. What might have appeared to be birds floating in the water were actually larger. They separated.
“Fishing boats,” Bakker said.
“Are you sure?” Vos asked. “Maybe they are—”
“Fishing boats,” George echoed. “Indonesians.” He straightened and moved forward with his cane. “Let’s signal them. Maybe we can trade or buy something.”
Soon, the group of them were waving and shouting from the shoreline. Two of the fishing boats broke away from the fleet and headed directly toward the island.
“They’ve seen us,” Vos said in a wondering tone.
George kept his cane up in the air for a few more moments, then as the fishermen neared, he lowered it. His comrades spoke varying levels of Indonesian or Malay. George knew several languages himself, but it turned out that Bakker was the most fluent, so he was elected as spokesperson.
The fishermen didn’t seem all that surprised to see a ragtag group of Dutch men on the island, but George certainly wasn’t going to ask them any questions about the war and thus pique their interest in his ragged group. The less these fishermen knew about them, the better.
Bakker moved to the shoreline where he could speak to the fishermen. After a short conversation, he turned to the others. “They will sell us fish and rice,” Bakker said. “What money can we spare?”
In the huts, they’d found coins and had collected them all.
“I’ll go and fetch money, then let the other men know of our good fortune,” Vos said.
George turned back to the fishermen. With the help of Bakker communicating with them, the fishermen agreed to cook the rice and fish as well.
“They offered to take some of us to another island to get supplies,” Bakker informed George.
“How many can fit?” George scanned the small fishing boats.
Bakker asked the question, and one of the fishermen held up four fingers.
“I’ll go as one of them,” George said.
Just then, the other men began to arrive with Rouwenhorst and Vos, who’d returned with money. After the negotiations were completed, the fishermen built fires and began to cook the fish and rice right on the shoreline.
George’s stomach rumbled at the delicious scent.
When the other men found out that the fishermen had offered to take four to go get supplies, Arnoldus volunteered to be part of the group.
“We already have four,” George said, looking around at the others.
Rouwenhorst frowned. “Which four volunteered?”
When George answered him, Rouwenhorst said, “You should stay back, Vischer. Your foot looks septic.”
George exhaled. His foot was swollen, greenish, and painful. But he could get around with his walking stick. “I don’t mind going.”
Rouwenhorst shook his head. “Thank you for the offer, Vischer, but if you have to make a fast escape, you’ll be doomed. We’ll send Arnoldus in your place.”
It was decided, then.
Vos nudged George. “You don’t want to slow anyone down.”
George was still trying to decide if he should take offense at the comment when it was announced that the meal was ready to eat. That was sufficient distraction.
After the fish and rice were consumed, four volunteers joined the fishermen. The men—Arnoldus, Feij, Rutgers, and Loeffen—were carrying a portion of the money Vos had divvied out.
“God speed,” Vos told the men. “Don’t forget which island we’re on.”
The volunteers laughed. The island would be imprinted on their brains for the rest of their lives. Nothing could make them forget.
George stood, leaning on his cane, with the other men as they watched the fishing boats sail away. The next time their comrades returned, they would have more supplies, and they could plan for a better future.
“Looks like rain,” Bakker mused.
George lifted his chin. Dark clouds were indeed gathering, but they were some ways off. He’d be surprised if the storm reached the island at all. But if it did, they had plenty of crockery and pots lined up in the yard outside the main hut, ready to catch the rainfall.
Chapter Fourteen
“Rumors circulated that the [Japanese] had set up bordellos and needed women. My mother cut my hair and put me in my brother’s clothes. Anything Dutch was forbidden. We were not even allowed to speak Dutch in public. Since we carried only Dutch names, Mom invented Chinese names for us. So I became instantly a boy with a girl’s name of ‘Mei Lan.’”
—Greta Kwik, Semarang
Mary
Mary’s feet ached despite her sturdy shoes, and she was sure that her children, mother, and sister-in-law were feeling it as well. The road tar burned hot, and she felt sorry for the refugees who didn’t have shoes. Where had all of these people come from, and why did they look like they’d been refugees for months?
They were heading toward a part of the city called Tjideng. Mary knew the northwestern edge of the area to be a red-light district and wondered why Japan had chosen it. Every building they passed on the way flew the Japanese flag. It was disconcerting to see how much the city had changed in so little time. They walked past the large grassy field—Konings Plein—in the middle of the city and then came to a stretch of road that was bordered by tall rain trees. At last they had some relief from the burning sun above.
Ahead of them, a bridge spanned a drainage canal. And just beyond that, was a set of newly erected gates suspended from large black poles. Two tall flag poles had been erected on either side of the gates, proudly topped by large Japanese flags. In front of the fence connected to the gate was a row of bungalows that appeared to be deserted. To the left of the gate, Mary could see a guardhouse made of a bamboo frame and woven bamboo walls, or gedek. The roof was constructed with thatched leaves from atap palms, and the veranda in front of the guardhouse was lined with rifles.
