The Persimmon Tree (46 page)

Lo Wok shook his head sadly. ‘I am ashamed. You will lose face, Missy Anna. I am very sorry.’

Anna wondered briefly what her father would think of her removing and disposing of a Chinaman’s shit. In her mind she used the four-letter word, knowing it was the one he would himself have used. ‘I must go,’ she said. ‘See you again when Til arrives.’

Anna climbed the steps up into the kitchen, then went to her father’s room to see if he wished to come out for lunch. To her surprise he was asleep, his grey and ginger speckled beard now just down to his chest and looking decidedly bedraggled. He had not shaved since boarding the boat and she decided she would need to trim it. How dearly she would have loved to take the scissors to the messy tangle above his eyes, but she knew the bramble hedge of hair was (goodness knows why) his supreme vanity. When she’d been young she’d felt sure it were inhabited by small creatures who spent their entire lives hidden there, only venturing out at the dead of night to slippery-dip down his bald head.

Til arrived just after two o’clock, apologising profusely. ‘No springs,’ he said. ‘The Japanese Major, at the docks, he bought the last springs. I am sorry, this one is coir only.’

‘Has it got a one-year guarantee?’ Anna asked, teasing the little
becak
owner.

‘More! What can go wrong with coir? Maybe five years. I will ask my friend.’

Anna sighed. ‘In five years who knows? There is no guarantee these days.’

‘Allah says a man who lives without hope is already dead,’ Til quoted. Anna suspected that most of the quotes attributed to God by Til were his own work. Allah simply gave them added authority. After all, one could hardly begin a serious quote with ‘Til, the
becak
driver says…’

She helped him bring the mattress indoors and then, with it still rolled and tied, slid it down the wooden steps to Lo Wok, who was waiting at the bottom. ‘Sorry, no massage woman!’ Til called. ‘Only coir. But there is change,’ he announced happily. He dug into his shorts for the money he’d saved before proceeding down the stairs. ‘No tip needed,’ he said cheerfully, handing the change to Lo Wok.

Back in the kitchen the two of them struggled but eventually got the stove repositioned over the trapdoor and the chimney adjusted. Til pointed to a brown, heat-blistered square on the whitewashed wall that clearly showed where the stove had previously stood. ‘Tomorrow I will send Budi to paint this wall,’ he said.

‘Til, do you think you could find someone to change a five-hundred-guilder note?’ Anna asked, deciding to use the opportunity to raise the problem directly with him.

The
becak
driver looked astonished. ‘There is such a note?’ he asked. She handed it to him. ‘I have never before seen this,’ he marvelled. ‘With this I can build a house, maybe also buy a motorcar taxi!’

‘Do you know anyone who might change it, Til?’

‘Only the Chinese, and they are no more,’ he said, shaking his head. Then he asked, ‘Have you tried Lo Wok?’

‘When he gave you the money for the mattress he didn’t have a lot over, it was a very small bundle.’

‘Ha! Old Chinese trick! Always an empty wallet and a full safe.’

‘Besides,’ Anna said, ‘if he had the money, he may think he must give it to me. He has already offered to pay.’

Til looked incredulous. ‘He is a Chinaman! If you have refused, he has saved face sufficiently.’

‘But a good Chinaman. He saved Ratih’s life.’

‘But still a Chinaman,’ Til asserted. ‘Anna, I will ask him. Then he can save face. I will tell him you do not want his money, only smaller notes.’

Anna led him to the back of the house and together they crawled through the hibiscus bushes. Anna, first calling softly to Lo Wok, left Til at the window and returned indoors. Til returned a good fifteen minutes later with a large bundle of fifty-guilder notes. ‘He lit a candle and held your five-hundred guilder to the light to make sure it wasn’t counterfeit. Ah, he is a good man, but once a Chinaman always a Chinaman!’ he sighed.

‘That’s great, Til! Thank you, a fifty isn’t too bad.’

‘A fifty everyone has seen,’ Til said. ‘It is a lot of money but it isn’t a house and a taxi car.’

‘Til, have you eaten, would you like some tea?’

‘No, I must go. I have to make a living. But first, Anna, I have something to ask.’

‘No more Chinese!’ Anna cried.

‘Yes, it is about the Chinese,’ Til answered, his expression grave. ‘The lieutenant says the
kempeitai
want all the people in the town square at four o’clock, when they will punish four of the Chinese, four of the biggest offenders. He says we must be seen there, Ratih and me and you, Budi also, because he worked for a Chinese merchant. In this way people will see us and so they will not be suspicious later. They will think, like everyone else, we hate the Chinese. He says we must be right at the front and he will make a place for us. You must wear your black glass eyes.’

‘No!’ Anna cried. ‘I do not wish to go! I can’t stand violence! Please, please, Til!’ she begged.

Til was silent for a while, head bowed, looking down at his sandalled feet, his left big toe pointing sharply to the right where he must have broken it at some earlier time and never had it straightened. Then he raised his eyes and squinted up at Anna. ‘It is the lieutenant that made this house available to you and your father. If the Japanese find out about Lo Wok, not just you, we will all die, even the lieutenant. They will call him a traitor and shoot him.’ His gaze was steady as he looked at her. ‘I will be here at half-past three o’clock to take you to the square. I will bring a Japanese flag for you to wave. There will be cheering and we must all cheer.’

Anna had a cold shower, washed her hair, dressed and made a cup of green tea to steady her nerves while she waited for Til to arrive. It was nearly a quarter to four when his
becak
drew up in front. ‘There is a very big crowd, I was delayed,’ he apologised. ‘Come, Ratih and Budi will be waiting with the lieutenant, who will take us to the front.’

‘What about Kiki?’ Anna asked.

‘She must mind the kitchen at the
kampong
. Ratih is very pleased with her. She will make a very good cook. Already she can do some of the difficult dishes.’

‘Til, I will not be able to look. What will they, the
kempeitai
, do to the Chinese?’

Til shrugged. ‘The lieutenant, he says they will use them to set an example. These people, these Japan soldier policemen, they control with fear. Even the Japan soldiers, they are terrified of them.’

‘Will they kill them?’ Anna asked fearfully. ‘How can I stand and look and not cry out?’

‘You have the black glass eyes, you can close your eyes and no one will see you are not looking. The people will be cheering. They will not be looking at you.’

While in Batavia I had told Anna about the atrocities committed on the Chinese by the Japanese when they’d captured Nanking, slaughtering 300 000 people — men, women and children — in ten days. Tens of thousands of male Chinese had been tied to posts and used for live bayonet practice to blood young Japanese recruits and give them
bushido
, the fighting spirit, to prepare them for war. I told her how General Tojo, then the chief of the Imperial Japanese Army and now the Prime Minister, had officially declared that the Chinese were not human, that killing one was no different to cutting out the entrails of a pig. A standard army joke was contained in the rejoinder, ‘No, there is a big difference! When you gut a pig you can still eat it.’

They arrived at the square to be joined by Ratih, her lieutenant and Budi, and made their way through the crowd, the popular policeman greeting people, stopping to have a quick word with some, making sure they were seen as he moved them to the flagpole.

Surprisingly, the Japanese battalion band was playing German-sounding marching music, while the entire battalion ranged in three straight lines behind the flagpole. A rostrum had been set up with a microphone on the plinth, five steps up from the square. The large cone-shaped loudspeakers were a new experience for the people of Tjilatjap. Three of these cones, each pointed in a different direction, now replaced the headless statue of the early Dutch Governor-General, Jan Pieterszoon Coen. Elsewhere convenient lampposts carried the cones that blared the oompah-pah music to the very edges of the square. The German-sounding band would remind anyone who knew that the Japanese Imperial Army was based on the German Army and its harsh Prussian traditions. Like most things the Japanese chose to adopt, its procedures were faithfully followed. To Anna it sounded similar to the military bands she had heard when they’d attended receptions at Government House in Batavia, although in every other respect this parade was an unfamiliar and frightening scene.

The square was jammed with excited people carrying Japanese flags. On the large cement platform at the base of the flagpole to either side of the microphone were four Chinese on their knees with their hands bound behind their backs with wire. Behind them stood twelve
kempeitai
at rigid attention
,
their uniforms immaculate, jackboots brought to a high sheen. The average Japanese soldier wore a nondescript uniform, khaki puttees wound around short thick legs, the entire turnout usually somewhat the worse for wear. However, the
kempeitai
were stone-cold killers with impassive expressions, always smart in appearance. Til nudged Anna. ‘Death wears shiny boots,’ he observed in a whisper.

‘Those four kneeling are the most important examples,’ Lieutenant Khamdani explained. ‘Three are members of anti-Japanese organisations and the last one, Wang Lee, is the biggest merchant in town and has the largest department store. The townspeople are especially happy for him to die. Their debts, a lot of guilders, thousands, perhaps much more, will now be cancelled.’

Anna would later ask Til how the Japanese knew the political or criminal affiliations of the four men, indeed of the life histories of the numerous Chinese in the town, including Lo Wok. ‘There are some Japanese like Onishi Tokuma, the tailor who is now mayor, who have been here a long time. They too are merchants, but small, not so rich as the Chinese. They are spies for Nippon, they have told the
kempeitai
who among the Chinese are the most important,’ he replied, then added ‘but there are also some Chinese who have informed against their own race. They wear hoods and attend line-ups organised by the Japanese and point to the communists and the members of the Kuomintang. They are helping the Japanese to decide who will live and who will die. Not all the Chinese have been put in jail, but the lieutenant says it will not be long before those in prison are dead. The Japanese do not want to waste food to feed worthless Chinese prisoners.’

‘They will also behead them?’ Anna asked.

‘Of course not, public execution is done as an example to the people. The rest of the prisoners will just get a bullet in the head — already there are local Javanese men digging their grave down by the river, one big hole for them all — but only after they have been tortured to locate their money. The Japanese know the Chinese always have gold hidden away.’

‘How do you and the lieutenant know all this?’ Anna asked.

Til shrugged. ‘It is
alurwaris
,
the kinship of the family. When something happens in any town in Java or even Sumatra, if it is important, we will know it. We have known about this Chinese business ever since the
kempeitai
came to Sumatra. What they did there, they will also do here. A goose does not turn into a duck.’

‘But wouldn’t the Chinese also know and try to escape?’ Anna asked, surprised.

‘Some, but
we
would not tell them.’ He shrugged. ‘Some Chinese families have been here three hundred years, most many generations. Where would they go? Australia will not take them. All the other places in Asia and the islands, the Japanese they are already there. They can only hope that maybe they can buy their lives with gold. That is the Chinese way. The
kempeitai
will agree. “Give us your gold and you will be freed,” they will say. Then when they have the gold they will kill the Chinese anyway. There is no code of honour between the Japanese and the Chinese.’

Now, as they watched, the band stopped playing and the battalion was called to attention. A Japanese colonel in jackboots and tight-fitting army pantaloons stepped forward, his samurai sword held by his belt on his left, his revolver holster attached on the opposite side. He was tall with a lean though strong-looking build, except that he had a decided limp. He was followed by a much shorter
kempeitai
captain, similarly uniformed, the only difference being that the colonel’s uniform was expensively tailored. Walking a respectable distance behind them came the Mayor of the Squashed Hat.

The mayor was dressed to the nines in tailcoat and striped trousers. A starched wing collar and black bow tie were attached to the neck of his white shirt. A titter ran through the crowd as they noticed he wore a brand new top hat that was somewhat too large for him, so that it rested just above his eyes. No one in the crowd had ever seen a comical get-up quite like this but, except for the top-hat titter, the townspeople remained respectfully silent in the presence of the Japanese. No doubt it would cause a great deal of mirth back in the
kampongs
later that night. The Mayor of the Squashed Hat was obviously there to interpret.