Under the Java Moon, page 18
Rouwenhorst took a moment to make the decision. Java had been invaded, but it seemed that most of the islands had been invaded by now. They’d never make it to Australia without supplies. Finally, the commander agreed. “We can try that—but will we run into the same issue?”
Bakker shrugged. “We have to get supplies somehow.”
“Very well,” Rouwenhorst said. “We’ll follow the skipper.”
At least they had a plan, and any forward movement was positive in George’s opinion. The skipper and his crew roped the lifeboat to the larger boat and sailed the Dutch seaman to the village he’d recommended.
There was a Japanese flag flying on that shoreline, of course, but with the encouragement of the skipper, Bakker said, “We’ll try our luck. It’s all we can do.”
So they rowed to the beach and several of the men climbed out. George got out to stretch. His foot was still painful to walk on, but he was so used to the bothersome toe that he barely paid it heed.
Indonesians gathered around Bakker and Rouwenhorst. It seemed these villagers weren’t hesitant about taking their money. George found a shady spot to sit for the duration. He was again on the same island as his family, and his thoughts turned to Mary and the children until Vos settled next to him.
“Where do you think the skipper went?” Vos asked. He’d gotten a hold of a cigarette and was taking long, slow drags on it.
George had never smoked as a habit, so he wasn’t tempted. “I don’t know if the skipper mentioned his destination.”
Vos shrugged. “I don’t think he did—at least Bakker never said anything. Why did he take off so fast though? He acted like he had plenty of time at his disposal last night and this morning. But now, suddenly, he’s gone.”
George shifted his gaze to the sea beyond. Vos was right. The skipper’s boat was nowhere in sight. Had he brought them here on purpose, then dumped them off? Why?
The answer came moments later when George heard the rumble of a truck. Maybe more than one. That in and of itself shouldn’t have put him on alert, but then the Indonesians suddenly scattered, taking their goods and wares with them. Leaving the Dutch seaman virtually abandoned on the beach.
George used his walking stick to haul himself up. “What’s going on?” he murmured.
“Oh no.” Vos stubbed out his cigarette. “We have the wrong kind of company.”
The truck came into view then, barreling out of the tree line down the beach. The tires spun the sand as the truck lumbered forward, to the exact spot where the Indonesian merchants had been a handful of moments ago.
Then a second truck came into view.
Both trucks were filled with Japanese soldiers. There was no mistaking their olive-green uniforms or their rifles. This wouldn’t be a friendly visit.
George’s heart felt like it had stopped, then started again with a jolt. Nothing . . . nothing could be good about this.
The Japanese soldiers poured out of the trucks, their rifles lifted and aimed right at George and his comrades. None of the Dutch were armed. Not even George’s walking stick could be mistaken for any sort of a weapon.
No one seemed to move, and no one dared speak, as the Japanese soldiers approached.
Rouwenhorst stepped forward, hands up.
The other seaman followed suit. George let go of his walking stick and raised both hands. His foot pulsated with the added pressure, but he swallowed back a groan.
“Do any of us speak Japanese?” Vos whispered as the soldiers neared, their dark gazes sweeping through the Dutch, as if counting them.
A couple of the men raised their hands, including George, but no one was fluent.
As it turned out, the language barrier didn’t prevent the Japanese soldiers from making clear what they intended for the Dutch to do.
Climb into the trucks.
The orders were barked in Japanese, but the motions were clear. Move. Move. Move.
George picked up his walking stick and pointed to his swollen foot when a soldier approached him. The Japanese said something, which was clearly no, so George dropped the stick again. He hobbled along with the others toward the trucks.
Where had the Indonesian merchants gone? Had the skipper deliberately brought them here, knowing they’d be taken by the Japanese army? George would probably never know. Bakker moved to his side and assisted George into the truck. The other men were quickly ushered into the bed of the truck as well.
They sat shoulder to shoulder with a couple of Japanese guards sitting across from them. The second truck was equally filled and monitored.
“Where are you taking us?” Rouwenhorst said, in Dutch. Perhaps he was hoping one of the Japanese soldiers spoke Dutch.
No such luck. The soldier closest to Rouwenhorst gave an order, which none of them could understand.
They’d find out where they were being taken when they got there.
They all knew they were on Java, but where were they being taken? There were changes all over. George spotted Japanese flags where there should have been Dutch flags. The streets were quiet, and buildings seemed abandoned. Churches, schools, places of business . . . Japanese soldiers stood sentry at street corners.
Were the Dutch people tucked safely into their homes? What about Mary and the children? Were they able to buy enough food at the markets?
The afternoon heat blazed above, but George felt numb to the scorching of his head and shoulders. His worries about his family deepened. They’d reached Batavia and passed more than one open-air market. But he hadn’t seen one Dutch woman, or one Dutch child . . . no Dutch at any of the markets. Where was everyone?
The trucks continued to lumber on until they reached Tandjong Priok. The very place where they’d launched their minesweeper nearly a month ago. Now, it seemed to be some sort of Japanese command center. Vehicles and troops were everywhere. Vehicles likely confiscated, but now bearing the Japanese flag emblem. And most of the soldiers were Japanese. Once in a while, George spotted an Indonesian man wearing a Japanese uniform.
When the trucks finally stopped, George felt as if his teeth had been rattled out of his jaw. Following orders in sharp bursts of commanding language, the Dutch seamen climbed out of the trucks and were herded into a former naval headquarters building. There, they were led into an office space. Desks and chairs were pushed aside, and several mats had been scattered across the floor.
Were they to sleep there? At least there was a connecting room with a latrine—something they hadn’t had access to for weeks.
The seamen crowded into the office space, taking seats on chairs. Some sat on top of the desks. George and Vos took a mat each, sprawling out their legs. They were in the heart of Japanese occupation. What was being done with naval officers? Would they be political prisoners? Used for negotiation or strategy?
Left alone, the men began to talk.
Bakker moved to one of the windows and reported on what he saw going on outside.
“We need a newspaper,” Vos commented. “What’s going on in the war? What kind of hold does Japan have in Java? How long will it last?”
George had all of these same questions. “What about our families?” he added.
Bakker turned from the window, his brow furrowed. “Maybe we can send letters?”
That might be too much to hope for, George decided, especially if they were truly prisoners of war.
The door to the room opened, and all conversation ceased. Two Japanese soldiers walked in, both carrying rifles. One wore a chef’s hat, which looked comical, because it was askew on top of the man’s head.
“I am here to take your dinner order,” the soldier said in English.
Why he thought the Dutch men spoke English was anyone’s guess. George knew enough of it to understand, though, and so did many of the other men.
Rouwenhorst moved to his feet from where he’d been sitting cross-legged on a mat. “We would like whatever is available. We are not picky. Something simple that is not too much trouble will be just fine.”
George’s stomach grumbled at the thought of having something to eat soon.
“Simple?” the man repeated. “Do you not want mixed grill with plenty of meat?”
Rouwenhorst clasped his hands together. “We would love a mixed grill,” he said. “We have been many weeks without such food. Anything would be very welcome.”
The soldier-chef smiled. “Very well. We will begin preparing your dinner right away.” He paused. “Oh, we have water and cigarettes for you. We hear that the Dutch like smoking very much.”
A few of the men chuckled. George stared in disbelief as more soldiers brought in water and cigarettes. The Dutch seamen lined up, fetched the drinks, and most of them helped themselves to the cigarettes.
Soon, the room was filled with the lazy tendrils of smoke.
Perhaps being a prisoner of war wouldn’t be so terrible. If only George knew how Mary was faring.
The next hour passed in a haze, helped by the cigarette smoke. But the men only smoked one—each of them understanding the value of saving something for later. George’s stomach complained, and he wondered how long it would take for the Japanese chef to cook dinner. Another hour passed, then another.
Finally, at least four hours after the chef had asked for their dinner orders, he arrived. Banging into the room with a couple of other soldiers, they brought in a pot of rice and some sort of fish stew.
George tried to hide his disappointment, as all the other men were likely doing. Food was food, and as long as it hadn’t been contaminated, they’d eat it.
Chapter Eighteen
“At night the inmates would sleep on elevated bamboo platforms, about three feet above the muddy floor, crowded together like sardines and placed head-to-feet. They were constantly pestered by lice, leeches, flies, mosquitoes and fleas.”
—Andrew A. Van Dyk, Cihapit Camp
George
“On your feet,” someone ordered.
George opened his eyes and focused on the ceiling above. Memories crashed through him. The capture on the island, the Japanese soldiers, sleeping on a mat on the floor. All around him, his comrades were rising from their sleeping places, shuffling to the door of the room they’d been locked into.
Soft gray marked the windows to the outside, so it must be before dawn.
George shifted to his knees, wincing at the pain in his foot, more out of habit than an increase in pain. It always hurt. Always throbbed. It just was. He had no walking stick, so he hobbled to join his comrades, who’d formed a haphazard line at the door.
Vos nodded to him.
“What’s happening?” George whispered.
“Bakker said something about hearing the word Kempeitai,” Vos said. “Japanese military police.”
“Are we coming back here?”
Vos shrugged.
They were marched out of the building and into a cool morning flushed with the first rays of the sun. It had rained the night before, and puddles clung to every available patch of ground that wasn’t a roadway. They walked for over an hour as the sun rose. George had thought his foot was uncomfortable before—now it absolutely seethed.
The Japanese soldiers who marched them were quiet and watchful. George wondered about these young men’s lives before the war, before they were conscripted into the Japanese imperial army. He was older than all of them, and it was a strange thing to be guarded over by men who were so much younger. But they were the ones with the weapons and control over Java.
“Where is everybody?” Vos murmured.
The roads were empty save for vehicles driven by Japanese soldiers. Occasionally a rickshaw passed by them, manned by an Indonesian, but no eye contact was made. The Indonesians obviously didn’t want any interaction with the Dutch prisoners, or any attention from the Japanese either.
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t know.” George gazed at the rows of shops they walked past. Many of them were owned by Chinese people. This area of Batavia was frequently called Chinatown. But now, the place was very quiet. Almost like it had been abandoned too.
The next road they turned onto almost brought George up short.
An entire section of housing had been fenced off. It looked like someone had outlined a piece of the neighborhood and erected a wall. They slowed as they approached the gate.
Beyond the gate, George saw chaos—Japanese soldiers rushed around like ants without a queen. Trucks rattled. A Japanese voice came through a megaphone. Targets had been constructed, forming a firing range, and the report of rifle fire echoed all the way up to the clear sky. To the side of the main road leading through the camp, Dutch men and boys were crouched over bowls of food. Just sitting on the neighborhood road. Eating with their fingers.
Since George and his comrades hadn’t been fed any breakfast, he could see how all formalities might be pushed aside if one was hungry enough. He’d spent the past month eating anything edible.
They were guided along the inside of the fence, then ushered into a small room that was barely large enough to fit their group. Two other men were already in there. Dutch civilians. And they looked like they’d been sitting in the room for a while. It was a couple of weeks into the war, but these two looked like they hadn’t slept for a year. Their bodies were unwashed, and their clothing dingy, and their hair scraggly. In the corner sat a bucket that served as a latrine, given the stench.
George’s empty stomach tightened, and he tried not to breathe through his nose.
With no explanation, the door was shut and barred from the outside.
Prison. This was the prison. And George had just been locked inside.
“Welcome to Glodok Prison,” one of the civilians said, eyeing the new group of men. “Where are you from?”
George moved to the ground to sit since his foot needed some relief. Others sat, while the remaining men stood, leaning against the wall.
Rouwenhorst told the other prisoners a few basics, and George looked over. He recognized them.
“Ed? Jacques?” Eduard and Jacques were brothers, although Eduard was a long, skinny fellow, and Jacques was stocky.
“George?” Eduard said, disbelief in his tone. “I didn’t recognize you.”
Jacques was staring as well. “You look . . . different.”
George gave a dry chuckle. “We’ve had a few adventures.”
“You’ve been gone since right after the battle of the Java Sea?” Eduard asked.
“That’s correct,” Rouwenhorst said. “What’s the news on the warfront? Are the Allies working to liberate Java?”
The two prisoners looked at each other, then Eduard refocused on Rouwenhorst. “You know nothing, do you?”
George leaned forward and blurted, “What don’t we know?”
“The Royal Netherlands East Indies government surrendered on March 8,” Eduard said in the silent room. “Japan not only occupies Java, but they’re in control of the entire Netherlands East Indies.”
“But . . .” Bakker began. “Where is everyone? What happened to the navy, the army, the civilians? The women and children?”
These were all questions currently plaguing George as well. Images of the deserted neighborhoods and abandoned shops rushed through his mind. He’d seen no Dutch women. And the Dutch men and boys he’d seen behind the fence, crouched in the dirt, now haunted his mind.
“Everyone was rounded up and put into prison camps,” Jacques said in a hollow tone. “Women and children together, and men and older boys in other camps. Neighborhoods have been quartered off, and individuals assigned housing. This house is now an extension of the Glodok Prison Camp.”
Eduard scoffed. “If you can call it housing. Dozens of men are in a single house—each lucky enough to call one corner his own.”
Jacques grimaced. “I’d rather be out there, than in here.”
“Why are you in here?” Bakker asked the question everyone had been thinking.
The two men looked at each other. “It seems we both had the same idea to attempt an escape while working the fields outside the walls.”
Jacques folded his arms. “Our Japanese guard was in the habit of taking afternoon naps. I guess we were both too tempted to leave.”
Eduard rubbed at his scraggly mop of hair. “Not that we had anywhere to go, or anyone to hide us. The Japanese soldiers regularly scour houses, looking for any who might be hiding. Even the lighter-skinned Indos are brought here. Right now, pale skin will get you locked up, no matter your heritage.”
“And the rest of the Indonesian men are being forced into Japanese military training,” Jacques continued. “Those who refuse are being brought into the camps too.”
“Camps,” Rouwenhorst echoed. “How many camps are there?”
Eduard and Jacques both shrugged. “Dozens? Hundreds? We have no way of knowing.”
“Do the Allies know about this?” Bakker asked.
“Another question we have no answer to,” Eduard said. “If they do, it’s wartime. We’re occupied. End of story, for now. We’d all heard about the Japanese POW camps, and now we’re living in one.”
George leaned his head back against the wall. Where is Mary? he wondered. If what his friends were saying was true, she and the children, along with Oma, were in a camp. Was she eating food out of a bowl while sitting on a road? How was she coping with her pregnancy?
He hated being trapped here. He hated feeling so helpless. If he was to be on Java, trapped like a monkey in a cage, he wanted to be with his wife.
The prison cell grew in heat and stench as the men had no choice but to relieve themselves in the small space. The windows were open, but there was no breeze to bring respite. As the hours ticked by, the cell became hotter and more stifling.
