My mother’s bravery

My mother’s bravery

In Recollections, Maurice Landsberger (ed.), Boville Wright, Uxbridge 2019, pp. 55-56.

I am a world citizen. Born from Dutch parents in Indonesia, I spent more than 4 years with my family in Japanese POW camps, then 6 months in a repatriation camp in Thailand. I studied in the Netherlands, England and Italy. I lectured for 20 years in Hyderabad, India, where I was fortunate enough to meet my lovely wife Jackie, then another 20 years in London. I guest lectured in many other countries. Now I am lecturing our resident squirrel in Denham Garden Village.

When the Japanese conquered the Dutch East Indies, they confined all Dutch citizens to camps. My father was transported to Singapore, then Bangkok. He slaved at the notorious River Kwai railway line. When, with my mother, I entered our first camp in Malang on the island of Java, I was five years old. I had three brothers: Carel, six years old; Niek, three years; Aloys, six months. The real hero of that time was my mother. In spite of all the hardships we encountered, she kept us alive and surrounded us with love.

On 29 May 1945 we were transferred to our last camp. I now know why. The Germans had surrendered in Europe. The Americans had conquered the Philippines and had begun to occupy the Japanese island Okinawa. A possible next target was Indonesia. The army expected an invasion in East Java. All prisoners of war were promptly clustered together in central locations, away from the coast. Ten camps sprung up around the hill towns Ambarawa and Banjubiru. We were destined to spend the final months of the war in notorious Ambarawa 6.

It so happened that when we were suddenly hauled out of Mankubumen camp in Surakarta to board a train, I had sprained my ankle. So I was carried by some friends to the railway carriage. Trouble broke out at our arrival at Ambarawa station.

The others were taken to lorries outside the station for further transport to various camps. I had been lifted out and laid down on the platform. My mother and brothers stood nearby, clutching our few belongings. A Japanese officer returned to the platform to see why we were dragging our feet. When he saw me lying on the ground, he ordered a soldier to heave me back onto the train. At that moment my mother intervened. She placed herself firmly in front of the door of the railway carriage and refused to see me carried back on.

The officer yelled. My mother yelled back.

The soldier tried to push my mother aside.

She did not budge.

Still shouting with anger the officer gave in. I was dropped back onto the floor of the platform. And then – my heart still stops when I think of it! – the train pulled out of the station . . . If my mother had not stood up for me, I might well have been separated from my family forever. Believe me, it happened to quite a few children at the time.

I am still wondering why the officer ordered me back on the train. Maybe he presumed that I would eventually land up in the boys’ camp. I was nine at the time, and boys over ten years old were routinely rounded up and consigned to Ambarawa 5. Or maybe he saw an opportunity of ‘adopting’ me into his own family. Japanese fathers were at times looking for substitutes to take the place of their own lost sons . . . Various cases are documented. Just the thought of it! I would have grown up eating sushi and sashimi delicacies – and talk to you in Japanese!

Whatever his intention may have been, I owed my life and wellbeing to the care and courage of my intrepid mother. I cried with joy that evening as we were all huddled again under our mosquito net, this time crammed with seventy-two other families in one-hall dank Barrack no 10, right at the end of crowded Ambarawa 6.

The endgame

I do not want to bore you with endless tales of the misery that awaited us. People died like flies. I myself had contracted permanent dysentery and, because of the lack of proper food or medicines, the prospects looked bleak. Our camp doctor later told my mother that he had already written me off. If the war had lasted another month, I would not have survived, he said.

Meanwhile girls in our camp were picked up ‘for exclusive operations’. After the war it turned out that they had served as ‘comfort women’ in the Japanese army brothels of Semarang. My good-looking but thirty-year old mother escaped this fate. She was considered too old . . .

We noticed that our guards were getting frantic. In spite of tight military censorship rumours were trickling in that battles had been lost. A group of Korean soldiers went on a rampage and took over part of our camp. Regular Japanese troops moved in and suppressed the mutiny with ruthless efficiency. The rebels were shot.

On the 15th of August our Japanese camp commander flew into a rage. He went round brandishing his sword and smashing everything in sight. With hindsight we know the reason. Emperor Hirohito had addressed the Japanese nation in an Asia-wide radio broadcast announcing Japan’s defeat. He ordered all Japanese forces anywhere in the world to lay down their arms . . . It was the beginning of our liberation, although it would take another three months before we were truly free.

Jackie knows I am telling the truth. On a trip to Indonesia we visited the campsites. But our squirrel still refuses to believe me.