A Different Sky (42 page)

‘And this will help?' Wee Jack asked in genuine interest when Howard spoke to him later, after reporting on the medical situation.

‘There is also a man with a bullet wound. I can do nothing for him,' Howard said, making his responsibilities clear.

‘He was shot running from the Japanese,' Jack told him. ‘I have heard the Grass Doctor is visiting a nearby village, we will send for him.'

The Grass Doctor came at night with an assistant carrying a lantern and a bundle of roots and leaves wrapped in yellowed newspaper. Water was boiled and towels were found, and Howard waited to see what the
sinseh
would do after he had cleaned the wound with the usual solution of tea. The medicine man gave orders to his assistant to pound the roots to a powder, and chew the leaves to a paste. When the poultice was ready it was applied to the wound and bound up. Howard remembered his own bullet wound, tended so successfully with herbal remedies by Mohammad Abdullah's wife. Once his work was done the Grass Doctor left, giving instructions to Pin about changing the poultice. Howard was amazed to see that within a few days the bullet had surfaced and was easily squeezed from the wound; a few more days and the man was walking about and back into camp routine.

Howard soon realised he had entered a mirror world, where everything was the opposite of what he knew. His education had been in English-medium schools, while most of the combatants in the camp were educated in the Chinese vernacular, if they were educated at all. Their social backgrounds were far from Howard's comfortable upbringing. Here, the Chinese sons of night soil carriers, cane cutters, vegetable sellers and
nipah
palm gatherers had joined to struggle for their rights in a new republic. The deputy captain of the camp had previously been a cleaner of toilets in a big British company. Howard
had no trouble with the chasm between his social position and that of the others. He admired their aspirations and was happy to champion them; in their place he knew he would feel the same. Yet, it disturbed him to find he was not accepted for himself, but was despised for his privilege and faced with constant suspicion. As much as he tried to fit in, the label of bourgeoisie was already set upon him.

Soon after he arrived he had managed to send a message to Cynthia and Rose: one of the boys in a group of food carriers had promised to get word through that he was safe. The complete lack of communication and his isolation from the world he knew weighed upon him as much as the deprivations he faced. Every night before he slept his mind went over possible ways to escape. Many villages had suffered at the hands of Japanese soldiers and were sympathetic to the guerrilla fighters. If he could find his way to one of these villages and then to the main road that ran through the narrow valley far below, he could find his way back to Singapore. Each day he gazed up through a dark lattice of trees at the patches of sky far above, listened to animals going about their daily lives and tried to conquer his resistance to yet another camp day. More and more, he realised the extant to which he was watched and distrusted. The world of the camp was a world of suspicion; everyone watched everyone else, to later report and criticise.

Time was set aside each day for these tribunals and confessionals. Individuals gave detailed accounts of their weaknesses and errors and then endured a long, haranguing criticism from their fellow comrades. In the same manner, a group evaluation of the day's work usually followed and Howard was expected to take part. When he could not see what errors he had committed or what weakness he revealed in the communist context, he was doubly harangued until his brain was battered and exhausted and in desperation he said the things they wanted to hear. Educational lectures were another daily part of camp life. After a few weeks, Wee Jack suggested Howard give talks on first aid, nutrition and hygiene and he was glad to oblige, if only to break the boredom and regimentation of camp life. Everyone was required to attend all lectures, and the muscular man in the ARP helmet always pushed his way to the front. The camp's political secretary gave daily indoctrination lectures on Marxist theory, to which Howard was required to listen. Like everyone else he was forbidden to ask questions,
and was ordered to memorise the principles of communism. During breaks in camp chores this was the only diversion: study, write, memorise communist ideology and recite the Manifesto.

‘Repeat. Repeat,' they urged him.

His brain grew more and more tired.

‘
The modern bourgeois society that has sprouted from the ruins of feudal society has not done away with class antagonism but established new conditions of oppression
.'

‘Repeat. Repeat.'

The greater the ambition of combatants, the greater the emphasis placed upon dogma. Everyone talked communism, breathed communism and ate communism; knowledge of dogma was valued above courage or a skill, and none of it made sense to Howard. The endless ideological pounding was like the constant shrilling orchestra of jungle crickets from which he was never free.

‘Think of yourself as a piece of clay,' Wee Jack said one evening as they sat smoking, observing Howard through narrowed eyes, his face seeming even more angular and emaciated. As he spoke, a bout of coughing seized him. When it had finished he spat into the grass and turned again to Howard.

‘You are worthless, your life is useless, but the Party will remould you. We will give you an edge of steel. The criticism is only for your own good, to make you more disciplined, a stronger member of the Party. A good communist has the strength to remake the world, just as the Party has remade him. We remake a person, we remake a country and then we will remake the world.' Wee Jack's words drummed into Howard's head. At first he had recoiled from Wee Jack's ranting, but sometimes now he found himself thinking that what he heard made sense.

‘We need only a few months to turn you into a trusted agent of the revolution,' Wee Jack said softly, observing Howard intently, his mouth above his goatish beard bent into a lopsided smile.

Wee Jack established a routine of sitting with him for a cigarette in the evenings, and gradually at this time he began to drop his strutting authority. Howard suspected that for all his propaganda talk, Wee Jack looked forward to his company, to talk of the past and things other than the Manifesto.

‘Communism is the only hope for the world,' Wee Jack exclaimed
when Howard discreetly probed the reasons for his dedicated fanaticism. Taking the cigarette from his lips Wee Jack leaned forward, his face filled with unexpected agitation.

‘Injustice. Everywhere you look, injustice.' Anger spread across his face in a way Howard had not seen before. Gone was the posturing cynicism, the fanatical arrogance, and in its place Howard had the feeling he saw for the first time Wee Jack's real emotions.

‘You talk about racial inequality, but you have always had food, education, medicine, a home when you needed it. You don't know about real injustice; you don't know what it's like to live with one meal in two days, to live in a few rooms with fifty other people, sleeping in shifts just to fit into the place, watching your mother die, your father die, your brothers die, your sisters sold into prostitution. You don't know about real injustice. The Party will remake the world, raise up the workers, put an end to your bourgeois concepts, everything judged on a full stomach and a soft bed to sleep in.' Saliva collected at the corner of Wee Jack's mouth as the words spilled from his lips, one falling over another under the pressure of his feelings. Then, as quickly as he had dropped his cover he pulled it back into place, inhaling deeply on his cigarette, his eyes assuming their usual cool and impenetrable authority. Howard drew a breath and wondered what caused such a copious leak of passion, but whatever it was, it had gone. Wee Jack leaned back against a tree and assessed the effect of his words upon Howard, the usual sneer locked again to his face.

On other nights when they sat together, Howard heard further unexpected revelations. For the first time he learned, incredulously, that communist guerrillas were now working with their former enemies, the British, in a counter-offensive against their common enemy, the Japanese.

‘I do not believe it,' Howard told Wee Jack. The man laughed so hard his racking, tubercular cough seized upon him.

‘The British themselves sent me to India for a crash course of training in a commando camp in Poona. We were taught everything needed for guerrilla warfare,' Wee Jack spluttered when he could speak again, enjoying the amazement on Howard's face before he continued.

‘The British can't mount a counter-offensive against the Japanese without the Malayan People's Anti-Japanese Army. They need us; we have a network of camps throughout the jungle. They give us training:
we provide them with manpower. The camp in Poona was an Indian army camp and Englishmen trained us. Some of those same Englishmen are now here in the jungle organising resistance and guerilla activities, and we are in touch with them,' Wee Jack boasted. Howard could not tell if the man lied or told the truth; it all sounded preposterous.

‘How did you get to India after Singapore fell and how did you get back here again?' Howard asked, suspicious of such a mercurial change of loyalties.

‘By submarine; British submarines come secretly into Japanese-controlled waters and bring in supplies and weapons for the commandos,' Wee Jack revealed.

‘You were working against the Imperialists before the war started, now you are working
with
them?' Howard puzzled. The contradiction appeared not to bother Wee Jack.

‘It is all just a means to an end. At the moment we have a common enemy and are mutually agreed we must get the Japanese out of Malaya. Once we do that, we will be back to working against the Imperialists and they will be back to trying to stamp us out,' Wee Jack gave another derisive bark of laughter as Howard shook his head in disbelief.

‘I want to return home. If one of the food-carrying groups can get me to the road, I'll make my way back from there,' Howard said. Encouraged by Wee Jack's growing communication, he judged this might be the right moment to speak. The man swallowed his hilarity immediately and Howard saw the depth of his mistake.

‘What do you mean, return home? Do you think you are here on holiday? You are one of us now; there's no going back.' Wee Jack stubbed out his cigarette, grinding it angrily into the ground.

Howard drew back. Once again despair spread through him as he realised to what degree in this impenetrable jungle he was a prisoner, held as securely as a fly in a spider's web. Whether he liked it or not, he was now part of the communist network. He turned away under Wee Jack's hard, penetrating gaze and fell silent.

The monotony of camp life closed about him and he began to lose track of time. Soon it was difficult to know how long he had been there – two weeks, four weeks or ten. Time was meaningless here, and its ebb and flow through the events of his life unfathomable.
In the end he gave up trying to count the days and surrendered himself to the dull rhythm. Far away in another world men were fighting to gain dominions and capture souls; nothing made sense any more.

I
N
A
PRIL
M
R
S
HINOZAKI
was transferred, along with Raj, from MAD, the Military Administration Department to CAD, the City Administration Department. It was a relief to escape the high-handedness of Colonel Watanabe. The Colonel had taken over the running of the Overseas Chinese Association from Mr Shinozaki. He was an ambitious man intent on collecting the $50 million donation demanded of the Chinese community. To do this he had released many people from prison to arrange their finances, but he did not release Mei Lan.

Mayor Odate welcomed Shinozaki to his new office in City Hall overlooking the Padang. Shinozaki as Chief Officer of Education at once focused his attention on reopening schools. Welfare and liaison were also part of his work and he continued to issue Good Citizen passes and trace people disappeared by the
kempetai
. Shinozaki gladly left his team of spies at MAD; those working with him at CAD he regarded as genuine helpers without the same level of ulterior motive.

He did not, however, find himself entirely free of Colonel Watanabe's influence. There were brothels enough in Singapore but no high-class geisha house where top army staff could hold a party. Colonel Watanabe was a man of big appetites who enjoyed carousing with his friends. He liked the idea of such an establishment, which was to be housed in the Cricket Club overlooking the Padang, opposite City Hall. Porcelain, chopsticks,
tatami
mats, Japanese rice, soy sauce and
miso
paste were all quickly imported from Japan for Colonel Watanabe's new venture.

The high-pitched singing of geisha, the twang of
samisen
and the answering calls of drunken officers in the Cricket Club across the road were constantly heard in the offices of City Hall. This noise, which started early in the day, disturbed not only Mr Shinozaki but also Mayor Odate. The dignity of civilian administrators in the City Department was diminished by the goings-on across the road, the
Mayor fumed, affronted. Soon, he made the situation known to higher authorities and eventually the Cricket Club geisha house was closed.

In his new position Shinozaki felt free to work discreetly for Mei Lan's release. Already, the
kempetai
had held her for months. ‘It may still take time but I have not forgotten her,' he told Raj with a smile one morning.

‘It means nothing to me,' Raj replied, afraid to show any interest in a woman suspected of having communist connections.

‘Her Eurasian boyfriend seems to have disappeared. It appears he had a radio and the penalty for this, as you know, is death,' Shinozaki added.

Much of Shinozaki's time was taken up by the reopening of schools. The Military Administration had ordered the Japanese language to be taught to every child in Singapore. This was not an easy order; there were no Japanese-language textbooks and also a shortage of school buildings as so many had been requisitioned by the military for their own purposes. Shinozaki employed an able Eurasian as Inspector of Schools and with this man Raj was busy about town, collecting chairs and desks, chalks and notebooks and the occasional piano to rebuild the looted schools. Although teachers were traced and, if still alive, persuaded to return to work, there were still no Japanese-language textbooks. Mr Shinozaki took it upon himself to personally write out lessons that were then printed in volume and distributed to all the schools.