Under the Java Moon, page 15
Even Georgie and Rita were expected to call out their numbers.
The officer who spoke Dutch joined the other soldiers. Mary felt immediate relief since at least she’d be able to understand him.
“Rules of the camp are as follows,” the officer called out. “It is expected that all European residents, who are a conquered people, pay deference to all Nippon. You are to bow to every Japanese soldier or officer that you see. No exceptions. Punishment will be immediate. This is how you bow.”
He snapped his hands to his side, his fingers stiff and straight, then he bowed at the waist. For a moment he stayed bent at an angle, then he straightened. “This will show you are respectful. We only want respectful prisoners who express humility.”
Prisoners . . . the word rippled hot through Mary’s body. She knew they were in an internment camp, of course. But hearing that word made it feel all that more surreal, and awful.
Mary glanced about her and saw the women nodding. They made an interesting collection of women of all ages, some wearing nicer clothing, as if they were going on holiday. Mary envied the women who had hats.
The officer said, “Roll call is called tenko in Japanese. This will be twice a day. You will line up in rows of ten—the same formation each morning and night. Call out your assigned number when it’s your turn. Starting with ichi, ni, san, shi, go, roku . . .”
Mary whispered the numbers, trying to memorize them quickly. She’d need to help her children learn to say them.
They began to count off, one row at a time.
When it came to Mary’s row, Tie started off the count, followed by Mary, her two children, then Oma. Claudia and her children were behind them.
Once roll call was finished, the officer paced in front of the rows and said, “In the morning, roll call will be at 8:00. You will be assigned to work groups.” His gaze slid over Mary’s row of women. “Older women will take care of the younger children. Everyone else will be expected to work. Evening roll call is at 5:00.”
The officer paused in his walking. “You will need permission to leave the camp. There is a market outside the camp where you can shop once a week. Everything will be inspected once you return. If you miss curfew, you will be punished.”
He continued to pace. “Postcards are allowed between the camps. For a postal fee.”
Mary could almost hear the relief in the women around her, even though they didn’t speak a word. They were all sufficiently cowed. Or maybe it was the blasted heat making them feel like they were puddles of melted wax.
Mary was happy for these women who would be able to communicate with their husbands in other camps. But what about her George? Where was he, and would she ever see him again?
Chapter Fifteen
“Discipline was very strict. Starting the next day, we found out just how tough. During roll call, a [guard] commanded us in Japanese. Nobody understood what he said. Attention! Right face! Count off! etc., all in Japanese. The first blows soon fell. It was advisable not to attempt to ward them off because they would be followed by numerous kicks and thrusts with the butt of a rifle. Blood of the first victim flowed freely and we learned the first Japanese cuss words . . .”
—Frans J. Nicolaas Ponder, Surabaya Camp
George
Four days.
It had been four days since the volunteers had left with the native fishermen. George had believed that one day away was acceptable. Two, as well. But on the third day, even Vos had started to predict the men’s demise.
The dawning of the fourth day brought with it increased anxiety over the fate of their comrades. How long did it take to sail to one of the other islands? Only a few hours. How long did it take to gather supplies? A few more hours. How long would it take to return? A day at most.
Yet, it was March 17 now.
George, Vos, and Bakker were on early morning watch again, sitting in the cool sand beneath the rustling palms.
“Are those fishing boats?” Bakker said, pointing beyond the shore.
George studied the sea vessels for a moment. It wasn’t a few boats, but one. “It’s a prahu.” The prahu was an Indonesian sailing boat. And this was the largest one George had ever seen.
The boat was headed directly for the island, so there was no use taking cover. They’d surely been spotted. Besides, there was a good chance their volunteer men were on the boat. Why else would this vessel be approaching?
“Something’s not right,” Vos said, his voice a murmur, but everyone heard it.
“Those aren’t the same fishermen we met before,” Bakker observed.
George squinted in the early morning light. “How can you tell?”
“They look like they live on the sea,” Bakker continued.
Vos barked a laugh. “What, like pirates?”
No one answered, and a shudder went through George. As the prahu neared, George wondered if they should send someone to fetch Rouwenhorst and the others. This boat had at least a dozen men on it—and if there were more, the Dutch would be outnumbered. But why should that matter? George wondered at his own alarm. The Dutch weren’t at war with the Indonesians . . . Yet, as the boat got closer, George could see the men well enough to presume that they would be happy to battle against anyone.
George stood stiffly next to his group of men as the Indonesians disembarked. He counted twenty-five in all. None of them resembled the group they’d met four days prior. Their rough and seaworn exteriors testified that these men spent much more time on sea than land. Besides, they were all armed with heavy bush knives. The horn handles made for a sturdy grip, and the blades were long and decisive.
“Raise your hands,” George said. “To show them we aren’t armed.”
The men did so, and Bakker stepped forward. His hands stayed raised as he greeted the rough-looking group in their native tongue.
The Indonesians spread out, taking a defensive stance, as they studied the sunburnt Dutch men. Finally, one man replied to Bakker. Their conversation was short, and Bakker translated as he went. He told the boatmen that they were waiting for their comrades to return.
“Your comrades are in Java,” one of the Indonesians said, his voice rough as he eyed Bakker.
“Have you seen them?” Bakker asked, although George heard the disbelief in his tone.
“Yes.”
How did these men know the four who had volunteered?
Just then, the other Dutch men joined them on the beach. They followed suit and raised their hands as well, in a show of peace. Rouwenhorst caught George’s gaze and gave him a slight nod.
This brought up their numbers to thirteen men. But they were still outnumbered and lacked any real weapons. George knew they’d lose within minutes. The Dutch might all look sturdy on their feet, but they were in various stages of weakness.
A few Indonesians who seemed to be the group’s leaders fell into a vigorous conversation. Then a couple of them broke off and headed toward the beached dinghy that had been dragged to the line of palm trees.
Under his breath, Rouwenhorst murmured, “Let them have the dinghy.”
George and his comrades watched in silence as the Indonesians dragged it down the beach, into the water, then loaded it on their boat.
Thankfully, the Indonesians took their leave without any further aggression. For several long moments, Rouwenhorst stood at the water’s edge, his arms folded as he watched the departure of the prahu.
George headed for the first group of palms and sat in the shade. His limbs were trembling—mostly from standing so long with his hands raised, but also from the anticipation of facing a fight he couldn’t win.
Bakker settled next to him. “That was close.”
George couldn’t agree more. “Our comrades aren’t coming back, are they?”
“I don’t believe so,” Bakker said. “And we’re now known to be here. If two sets of fishermen found us, surely the word is out. For better or for worse.”
What would stop the Indonesians from informing the Japanese military about the stranded Dutch seamen? Especially if there was a reward involved. Or what was to stop them from returning and taking them hostage?
A few meters away, Rouwenhorst paced, his brow cinched in thought.
Desperation burned white hot in George’s chest. “I don’t think we can stay here any longer.”
At this statement, Vos walked over. “What do you mean? Where will we go?”
Rouwenhorst crossed to them, joining their group. “Vischer’s right. We’re sitting targets now. Too many Indonesians know our location. The Japanese army will soon if they haven’t been notified already.”
“But the dinghy is gone,” Vos said. “Unless you have another one you’ve been hiding from us.”
George had already considered this. The Indonesians taking the dinghy had been like a blow to the stomach. But now, they couldn’t remain here day after day, hoping for rescue. It wasn’t coming. He didn’t know what was in Rouwenhorst’s mind, but there was one solution in George’s.
“We have access to two damaged lifeboats from the Marula,” he said. “We could repair one with parts from the other.”
The other men had all joined them. Rouwenhorst rubbed at the scraggly beard on his chin.
“Where would we go, though?” Vos pressed. “Where else can we be safe?”
Rouwenhorst’s gaze was firm. “We can’t give up on Australia yet. We still have our orders, men.”
George’s gaze connected with Rouwenhorst’s. There was no arguing with their commanding officer. “We have sea charts that we salvaged from the lifeboats.”
Rouwenhorst nodded. “Very good, Vischer. We need a plan of action. The group that was on watch this morning will return to the hut to scour the sea charts. The rest of us will retrieve the lifeboats and bring them to this island. Today we’re starting repairs. Time has run out.” He looked at Jaden and Mulder. “You two will keep watch for more visiting fishermen.”
Even though every word Rouwenhorst spoke was true, hearing it spoken aloud made George feel deflated. By repairing one of the lifeboats and leaving the island, they’d be giving a final farewell to their four lost comrades. They were officially giving up on them.
With half the group, George trudged back to the main hut. The day’s heat had bloomed, and George was covered in perspiration by the time they stepped into the cooler interior of the hut. He was out of breath like he’d been running instead of walking.
The morning coffee had not gone very far.
Men scurried about, gathering the sea charts, then spreading them across the table. Every man in this hut had been trained on reading the maps, and most of them were familiar with the different islands—although not perfectly because there were so many.
“What about the Poeloe Pajoeng,” Bakker suggested, tapping a finger to an island south of their present location.
The Poeloe Pajoeng was also called Paraplue Island, George knew. Was it currently occupied, or had the Indonesians evacuated it as well? Surely there would be shelter available and supplies left behind. At the very least, it was nearly a full day’s travel and quite a distance from the Thousand Islands.
“I don’t have an objection,” Rouwenhorst said, scanning over the surrounding islands. “Anyone have a better idea?”
No one did, and George said, “It’s not far from Java. Do we care about that?” Their families were all on Java, so was it better for them to return or keep away?
“I don’t see any other choice,” Vos said.
The other men murmured in agreement, so it was decided.
“We will leave on the next cloudy day,” Rouwenhorst said.
Two days later, they set sail.
Thirteen men in a repaired lifeboat were once again upon the water. This time, they had more supplies with them. But it was disconcerting for George to be out on the open water once more, vulnerable to the sea’s elements, even though he and the men had extra clothing items taken from the huts. They were at the mercy of fair weather or foul, native fishermen, Japanese destroyers . . . not to mention the risk of being spotted by a bomber. As long as the clouds stayed overhead, they had a chance.
Leaving at the first glimmer of dawn, they rowed as fast and steady as they could, Vos offering up frequent prayers for the clouds to stick around. They arrived at Paraplue Island nearly fifteen hours later. The sun had set, and faint pink illuminated the clouds, turning to violet as they steered their way to the shore.
Not far into the island, a lighthouse stood, though there were no signs of occupation. No lights glimmered, and no cooking fires glowed on the beach. Was the lighthouse keeper following blackout orders, or was the structure deserted?
As several of the men worked to drag the lifeboat all the way to the first line of trees, George stretched his cramped muscles. His skin felt hot and uncomfortable with the prolonged exposure to the sun that day. Perhaps they could find a freshwater pond somewhere. Before he could suggest a scouting trip, a man came walking along the beach.
His deep brown skin and grizzled beard marked him as a native islander, and he carried a long bush knife.
“Ho, there,” he said in Malay. “Where are you from?”
Bakker turned to face him.
The native stopped several meters away, wariness in his gaze, but his stance was firm.
Bakker spoke for the group, being the most fluent in Malay. He explained where they were from, then added, “We’re missing four men who departed with fishermen several days ago. We left the Thousand Islands because we don’t trust our safety there anymore.”
The native gazed at each person in turn, as if deciding whether or not he believed their story. “I am the lighthouse keeper here.” He waved toward the lighthouse. “Come, I will prepare a meal for you. There is plenty.”
This was the last thing George expected to hear.
Around him, his comrades were grinning.
The lighthouse keeper didn’t smile back, though. He motioned for them to follow. It wasn’t a hard choice to trust the man, especially since the Dutch severely outnumbered a single man.
They reached the lighthouse, and in a short time, the keeper had set out a simple meal of cooked fish, rice, and mangoes. Simple, but delicious. As they ate in the moonlight, the mood was lighter than George remembered it being since their friends had gone missing.
Rouwenhorst pressed Bakker to ask the native, “Do you have many visitors to your island, and have you heard anything of four Dutch sailors traveling with fishermen?”
At this, the lighthouse keeper set down his bowl of food. “I have heard stories, but I have not seen the men themselves.”
Everyone went quiet at this information.
“Stories?” Bakker echoed.
The native folded his arms. “The stories I’ve heard are not good. Four Dutch men were murdered on a nearby island.”
No one reacted at first. George tried to comprehend the man’s words. Could they be true—could he mean their comrades?
“Do you know the Dutch men’s names?” Rouwenhorst asked in a low rumble.
The lighthouse keeper shook his head. “No names needed. Four Dutch men on these islands are rare.” He lifted a hand toward the sky. “Especially with the Japanese all around us. The Dutch are going into camps on Java. Rounded up like sheep.” He clapped his palms together. “Gone. Just like that.”
George wasn’t fully following the man’s language. Was he saying . . .
“Wait,” Bakker said, then rattled off several questions.
The lighthouse keeper replied in kind.
Bakker pushed to his feet and walked the perimeter of the men, then turned and faced everyone. “Our friend here says that Dutch officers are being captured and put into prison. We had heard this about other islands outside of Java, but now it’s been confirmed. Returning to Java will be a definite prison sentence. Yet hiding out on islands will only get us so far. Japanese soldiers are all around, and not everyone will be as accommodating as our new friend here.”
“Reaching Australia might be impossible now, no?” George murmured to Vos, who sat next to him. “It seems Japan has infiltrated everywhere. And we’d need more supplies to make that voyage.”
Mulder rose to his feet, facing the men. “How can you talk about Australia anymore? We already tried that—on a well-equipped minesweeper. We were bombed, multiple times. What makes you think we can just resupply and take off again?”
Rouwenhorst moved toward Mulder and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Mulder, sit down. We still have our original orders.”
Mulder stalked away, took a seat, then buried his face in his hands.
Bakker gazed at Mulder for a moment, then said, “We’re not safe on this island for much longer. Not being so near to where they executed . . .” He exhaled. “Our comrades.”
Everyone went absolutely silent. George felt the weight of his comrades who’d lost their lives. Would that be the fate for them all?
The lighthouse keeper said something in rapid-fire Malay, and Bakker translated for those who didn’t understand. “He recommends that we travel to Krawang and buy supplies there.”
Mulder’s head came up. “That’s on the coast of Java.”
Bakker folded his arms. “We’ll have to hope there’s not a concentration of Japanese troops in that area.”
It was no wonder that it took a while for George to fall asleep that night. His journey was far from over, yet as he gazed at the moon overhead, he thought of Mary. If so much was already happening on Java, how was she doing? Was she sleeping well? Or was she watching the moon like he was?
The following morning, George woke with a start. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but men around him were already preparing to leave the island. He rolled to his side and winced at the renewed pain in his foot. He hoped he could get medical attention in Australia, that was, if they made it there. What were the chances of surviving a sea voyage now with so much against them? Using his walking stick, he pushed to his feet, then he helped load the boat with the few things the lighthouse keeper had donated. The man himself stood a few meters off, watching the preparations.
