Pattaya Mail — Columns

Winebibber’s Grapevine  

Dolf Riks: The final days of World War Two and a “liberation” that never happened

The series of articles I recently wrote about my family’s and my own experiences in the Second World War, did not culminate with the story of what happened at the end of those three and a half years of Japanese terror. This was partly because of fatigue, or reluctance on my part to continue with the subject, a writers block I have experienced before when confronted by that particular episode in my life. In an article featured in the Pattaya Mail during June 1995, I did write about the events of the summer of 1945. This was at the occasion of the commemoration of the end of the hostilities in the Pacific War. Nevertheless, friends and readers have asked me to reconsider and bring these articles to a well-rounded entity.

This week I will relate the circumstances of the non-event of our "liberation" from captivity in the fourth and ninth battalion prison camp, in August and September of 1945.

We lived a kind of timeless existence in the prisons and prison camps during those years. There was no communication with the outside world and to be discovered having a radio, or even spreading news items about the war, meant to be arrested by the dreaded Kempei Tai, the Japanese version of the German Gestapo. Torture would be one’s certain fate, usually followed by death. There were plenty of whispered rumours but, after having been disappointed so many times, we did take to these stories with a great deal of reserve. People consulted the Ouija board, Nostradames or any other means which could be manipulated to predict the future as one wished it to be. Sometimes I felt that the constant fear and insecurity, the itching caused by bed bugs and the always present hunger would never end. I had no idea of time anymore and nowadays have to check history books to get the sequence of events during those years in their right slot.

We did not believe it when, in the first weeks of August 1945, we heard via the "Kabar Angin" (news carried on the wind) that a huge bomb had been dropped on Japan. "It was impossible", we said, "it must be a figment of imagination of some prisoner’s delirious mind." A few days later we heard about the second bomb, the one on Nagasaki. The Japanese and Korean guards were not more than usually obnoxious or morose so we still doubted the story albeit our defences were down. There is a possibility that the lower ranks in the Japanese army were kept in the dark as well, in order to prevent demoralisation. When the news broke that Japan had surrendered, we finally had to believe it. According to my camp friend Piet Verhaart, who lives at present with his wife in Australia and with whom I have frequent contact via E-mail, in his part of our camp, which contained about 10,000 inmates, the capitulation of Japan came as a total surprise.

One day we were officially informed that the war was over but that we had to stay put in our camp. We were not allowed to leave because it was dangerous outside, as the Indonesian population had risen against the Dutch. As had been decreed by the supreme command of the area, the defeated and dispirited Japanese Imperial Army was supposed to protect us against any danger. The supreme command was in this case, Lord Louis Mountbatten of Burma and his aide Laurence van der Post, a South African writer and explorer who had fought a guerrilla war against the Japanese on Java. This information I obtained much later through reading the available material on this incredible and absurd business.

After all those long years of pining for our freedom, we were denied the pleasure. No soldiers on tanks kissing local girls, no parties, fireworks, flowers and other manifestations worthy of a real liberation? All I did was try on my disused shoes I had kept for that magic day of freedom, but even that was a disappointment as they hurt so much that I put right off again. Lord Louis Mountbatten could not cope with the logistics of such an operation and we, as well as most other internees on the island of Java, were left to our own devices. This, I am sad to say, led to more bloodshed, misery and in some cases, years of imprisonment under the Indonesians, especially in Central Java.

But there was food, glorious food. We were given eggs, dried fish, unlimited amounts or rice, meat in our daily soup, sugar and many other wonderful things. Some of our compatriots ate so much those first days of plenty that they ended up in the hospital and were put on a starvation diet again to get their insides back into shape. One day a huge Lancaster bomber or supply plane flew over the sport fields outside our camp and dropped parcels with spam, cigarettes, sugar cubes, corned beef and preserved butter.

But we were not satisfied with the status quo. Why did we have to wait for somebody to come and let us out? When September came we made regular forays through the barbed wire and matted bamboo fence into the village market were we bought more food and feasted on Indonesian curries with rice. The Japanese army did not care of course. Somebody borrowed or stole a truck and packed it with enthusiasts for a fun trip to Bandung. It was soon packed and I had to sit in front of the driver on the bonnet with some friends.

On August 28 of that year I sent a prisoner post card to my mother, still written in Malay, as we were required to do during the war. I can’t remember why I did this but suspect that it went with the camp mail and I was afraid it would be destroyed when written in the Dutch language.

On September 17, I wrote my mother, older sister and two younger brothers in Jakarta, a letter in Dutch, which went by safe hand by courtesy of a trusted friend and it included a note of fifty guilders. I have a copy of this document as well and also of a letter my mother wrote me previously, obviously after she had learned that I was still alive. She advised me not to travel to Jakarta, unless I could find work in the camp they were still living in (the notorious Cideng Kamp). She also mentioned that there was a lot of unrest in Jakarta and the countryside and because I had written her that I ate so much and was gaining weight, she warned me: "Don’t get fat!"

In the beginning of October, we became tired of waiting for something which obviously was not going to happen. The political situation became more and more dangerous and to wait longer wasn’t a prudent thing to do. So one morning in early October, a couple of friends and I departed by train to Jakarta. It was a terrifying journey, lasting the whole day (normally about three hours), as we spent long periods standing at rural stations where many long haired Indonesian youths, armed with bamboo spears, machetes and other menacing weapons tried to get us off the train. But we made it and arrived late in the evening at the main station of Gambir in Central Jakarta.

With some of the others, and millions of mosquitoes, I spent the night on the terrace of an empty pre-war villa. I can’t recall having ever before, or after, been so viciously attacked by the pests. Very early in the morning I embarked on a quest to find my family who were still living in a small store room of a suburban house they had shared with 94 other women and children during that last most cruel year of the Second World War. I was lucky, as the next day we all moved to another neighbourhood which was again appropriately called a "Camp". There, we were protected by the Anglo Indian Army.

After waiting for months for my father to return, my sister and I went to the Red Cross Headquarters on Medan Merdeka in December and there we were told that he was missing, probably perished during the sinking of the Yunyo Maru in the Indian Ocean on September 18, 1944. This was later confirmed (see previous articles). My sister went to Holland at the end of the year and we stayed on until May 1946 before we were evacuated by troop ship to the Netherlands, to us children, the unknown fatherland.

Dear Hillary,
I am a woman who has always cared a lot for her family. Every time there is something I can do for them, I will do it. The only problem is, they take it for granted, especially my husband. Whenever it comes to Christmas, Easter, weddings or a birthday, I am the one who has to remember the occasion, has to take into consideration what the person would be pleased with and has to run around buying all the presents. This is not such a big problem, but nobody seems to do the same if it comes to my presents. My children, already having their own family, or my husband, who is a busy manager, will buy me a book - which I usually already have on my bookshelf, or something "new" for the kitchen which I have had in use for years, or a bottle of wine which they drink themselves immediately. In special cases I get perfume, no not the one I would like to have, but rather something bought in-between and for a special bargain. Not a big problem you might say, I always could exchange it. Only there is never a receipt which I would need in order to do so. Most of the time I wonder if they ever think about me or even know what I like, what books I read or what needs and wishes I have. Is it only lack of time or simply ignorance? What should I do about it?

Silly Gifts.

Dear Silly Gifts,
You sound like one of those women who are not confident enough to say what you want. Why don’t you tell your husband and your children what you want? Write a list of your wishes and pass it on to everyone. This is nothing you should be ashamed of, and is much better than never being pleased with what you actually receive. I am sure your husband and your children, maybe even your friends, give you hints on what they would like. Why not do the same?

Women are usually the better listeners and remember what people are talking during the year. Many times men are ‘too busy’ to think about these things. A manager has his secretary to remind him of every important meeting or happening. Why don’t you use her? If your husband is too busy to buy and choose the right present for you, she can remind him and tell him what you want, and even buy it herself. It shouldn’t matter that your husband isn’t doing the shopping himself, as long as you are satisfied with what you get. You have been pretending for too many years that you like what you’ve got, you don’t have to carry on doing so. If this plan doesn’t work out, stop buying presents yourself and if your family is offended, explain to them why.

Dear Hillary,

My boyfriend, a Thai, is a wonderful man. Charming and sparkling and at the same time very caring, nice, good fun and very kind. What else could I ask for? I do, for he runs at least a half hour late for everything, every appointment, and it drives me crazy. I, a European, was brought up never to be late and I am usually too early for my appointments. Every time we arrive too late to a party, for lunch or dinner or whatever, he claims he had to wait for me. "Women always have to do their hair, make-up etc., again at the last minute". The truth is, I am ready, waiting for him until he finishes his shower, toilet, sleeping, etc. All our friends know about it, but nobody will say anything and I usually apologize later on for both of us. Do you think this big difference will drive us apart?

Punctual

Dear Punctual,
I understand how you feel. Being punctual myself I can relate to the aggression this permanent late-coming causes. I also understand your anger with for him blaming it on you.

Sooner or later you will to realize for once and all that most of the time Thais are late. You, me, nobody can change it. If a Thai arrives in time, he will get standing ovations, for everyone - even Thais themselves, know and accept it.

If he puts the blame on you again for a late arrival, just smile, don’t apologize and don’t start a discussion over it. That is, if would you like to continue your relationship. Instead, try to trick him at home by telling him the appointment is one hour earlier then it really is, and I am sure you will arrive in time. While waiting for him to get dressed up, read a book, watch a film or do something you usually never find the time to do.

  Thai Idiom: Jai-Tok

‘Fall-Heart’

‘Now they’ve got it wrong for sure.’

‘Everyone knows it’s ‘tok-jai.’

There is an idiom ‘tok-jai’, which means
‘to be startled.’

But if these words are reversed, the resulting idiom refers to feeling one has immediately after receiving depressing or saddening news.

‘When you told me your breasts were really implants, I jai-tok.’

Or, ‘When I heard your favourite cat had asthma, I jai-tok.’

‘Startling sadness’, if there is such a concept.

Copyright © 1997 Pattaya Mail Publishing Co.Ltd.
370/7-8 Pattaya Second Road, Pattaya City, Chonburi 20260, Thailand 
Tel.66-38 411 240-1, 413 240-1, Fax:66-38 427 596; e-mail: [email protected]
Created by Andy Gombaez