26 July 1942

Out from 5.25 to 6.05.  Walk, run round and PE as usual in silence.
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Altogether, the show bills specified about 20 items and were rather apt to give the impression that the company consisted of at least as many artists.  But even if we were only six, we certainly did the work of 20!  It was a case of rapid fire and quick change all the time and the whole show went with a swing and tempo which I have seen equalled, but never bettered, since.  Although I may be somewhat biased regarding the quality of our entertainment, the vociferous applause which was invariably our portion (when the audience turned up) would seem to have confirmed my own opinion that it was a rattling good show.  Or it may only have been that the country lads and lasses were easily pleased with anything in the way of novelty, such as we certainly brought to them!

Thelma, the Wonder Child (little Gladys Stratton), assisted by Professor Montague, performed an act of telepathy and clairvoyance.  She sat in the middle of the platform, blindfolded, while Monty went to and fro among the audience selecting a watch here, a brooch or a coin here, and asking Thelma to describe the article, tell the time from the watch or the date of the coin etc.  The whole thing was, of course, based on a system of key words which were contained in the questions which Monty asked.  For instance, ‘What is this?’ would mean signify a ring, while ‘What have I here?’ indicated a watch and so on.  Similarly, with time and dates the numbers were conveyed in questions.  For example, ‘Can’ stood, say, for 10, ‘tell’ for 2 and ‘now’ for 5, so that when the question was put, ‘Can you tell me now what the time is'?’  the answer was, of course, 10.25.  The question sounded quite natural, such as ‘Tell me the time on this watch’; ‘Can you say what time this watch shows?’; ‘What is this?’; ‘Now what have I in my hand?’ and so on, and the effect must certainly have been mystifying and entertaining to the uninitiated audience.  There was nothing very wonderful in the whole business but little Gladys was certainly a wonder child as far as her memory was concerned.  How I have envied that child then and since for her power of memory and never more so than on one occasion when, Gladys being indisposed, Monty in an ill-omened moment, insisted that I should act as her substitute in order to fill the bill.  Ye Gods, how I swotted at the code the whole of that day!  And imagine my feelings when, having been introduced to the audience by Monty as the brother of the famous Thelma and also gifted with clairvoyant powers, I was placed on the chair, blindfolded, and left all on my lonesome in the middle of the stage.  On being blindfolded, not only the lights in the hall were obscured, but every other light, mental or otherwise, deserted me.  I have not been blessed with a good memory and realising that even then, I was in a state of sheer funk as well.  The torture began, but to my shame, but none the less to my devout relief, it did not, could not, last long.  I believe I answered the first two or three questions correctly, simple things such as a ‘ring’, a ‘brooch’, etc.  However, when it came to the date on a coin, the last remnants of reason fled and everything went blank.  And there I sat, bathed in a sort of cold perspiration, dimly aware of Monty’s voice asking the same question two or three times, giving that up and going on to something else in a desperate effort to save the situation.  But all in vain.  There sat the clairvoyant brother of Thelma, a complete dumb dud.  Poor Monty made the best of it but I had let him down badly and he could do no more than return to the stage and lead me away.  Monty was one of the best natured souls alive, but I can find it in my heart to forgive him if he suffered from some slight homicidal tendency that evening.

In this way, Monty was quite a character.  He was, I suppose, about 50 when I knew him and had been, I  believe, connected with the ‘profession’ in a rather third rate capacity, I imagine, most of his life.  He was a fair enough conjurer but confining himself to the stock tricks of the trade and quite a passable ventriloquist, working with the usual dummy.  The only bit of ‘patter’ between Monty and his dummy which I can recall went as follows:

Dummy:  Who was that girl I saw you with last night?
Monty:  That was my fiancée, George.
Dummy: Oh what a face – what a dial!
Monty: (Slap!) Shut up, you impudent rogue!  Besides, George, you must remember that beauty is only skin deep.
Dummy:  Then, for Heaven’s sake, skin her!
(Slap!)

Monty also had another act which he called ‘Papergraphy’.  This was carried out with nothing else than a fairly big piece of wrapping paper, folded somewhat after the fashion of a Venetian blind, which by manipulations was made to represent a chair, a basket, a fan, etc.  Rather clever and entertaining, too.  Monty was  fairly heavily built man and somehow gave the impression that his legs were somewhat of inadequate strength to carry the upper structure.  he did not exactly walk – he stumped.  His shoulders were slightly bent as though he carried a load – which I have no doubt he did, poor old chap.  Failure was written all over him and even his face had a battered look about it which reminded one of an ex prize fighter run to seed.  He always smoked Woodbines but, strangely enough, I cannot remember ever having seen Monty with a whole, or even a half cigarette, in his mouth.  It was always a stump of about half an inch long in the corner of his mouth, the smoke from which crept continually past his nose into his left eye, which was always half closed and tearful in consequence.  That cigarette stump has always puzzled me because Monty smoked 50 to 60 Woodbines a day and the whole cigarette must have existed.  But, as I have said, I never saw one.  Monty was clean shaven and used a good old ‘cut throat’ razor.  The sight of Monty shaving was one which filled me not only with respect (I myself had nothing to shave at that time) but with a feeling akin to awe.  He never used a mirror and used to wander all over the place scraping away the perpetual cigarette stump in the corner of his mouth and his face all screwed up from the combined effects of the smoke and the operation.  He was one of the kindest hearted men, easy going, taking the bad with the good in an admirable philosophical spirit – a regular old trouper of the best kind, and a very real asset in a small ensemble such as ours.

25 July 1942

Received a wonderful parcel from Ineke yesterday, my birthday, containing two pillow cases, writing pad and pencils, the pocket Bible and the pocket Testament which Dad carried with him in the last war, playing cards, needle, thread and wool, a tin of home made Swiss milk toffee, condensed milk, cigarettes and cigarette papers.  I feel like a millionaire.  The pad and pencils are a godsend.  Out 5.30 to 6.15.  The tough guys are on duty, W and W, Looney, Pokerface etc.

Yesterday, I celebrated my 39th birthday in a prison cell.  And, just half an hour ago, still in the cell, I celebrated the first day of my fortieth year by sitting down on a plateful of soft boiled rice!  My cell is 2.5 x 1.5 meters (8 feet x 5 feet) and the furnishing is scanty.  A small oblong table, a three legged stool, a bed which folds up against the wall when not in use, and a small cupboard hanging on the wall above the bed  is the inventory, if one excepts the very respectable WC pot with a zinc basin above it in the corner apposite bed and door.  In removing anything from the cupboard, therefore – and I had just taken my writing pad from under the plate of rice – there are only the table and chair to put it on.  The table being otherwise engaged at the moment, I placed the plate of rice on the stool, took out the pad, closed the cupboard, turned round and sat down.  The immediate sensation was a surprising one – a soft yielding combined with a concave resistance, which at last suddenly gave way with a mild crack as the plate broke under me in three pieces.  Realisation came with a crack, but even then a moment’s cogitation was necessary to determine how the act of rising could be accomplished with a minimum of further disaster.  Taking off my shorts was a delicate operation as was the messy job of scraping the seat with my spoon.  Soft boiled rice also all over the stool and floor – but all is cleaned up now and order restored, my shorts hanging on the window with the damaged portion exposed to the evening breeze.  No supper tonight, though.

But to get back to this prison business.  The nearest I have ever been to prison in my life before was away back in 1919.  I had given up a promising position in the Aberdeen Public Library (13/6 per week which equates to, in today’s money, 67.5 pence or 94 US cents, with the prospect of becoming perhaps a junior librarian in 20 years’ time) to join with a travelling concert party, The Balmorals, which was just commencing a winter tour of practically every town and village from Aberdeen West and Northwards.  I joined as  vocalist, at fifteen and a half years of age, and was provided with a second hand dinner suite (30/- from one or other old clothes’ store) with a salary of 30/- per week all found or, again in today’s money, £1.50 or just over US$2.  The Balmorals party was run by Gus Stratton and James Montague (Monty) and consisted of Stratton and his wife and child, Monty, a young/old lady, whose name I forget as pianist and myself.  As I have said, I joined the party as vocalist but my duties as a member of The Balmorals were manifold, not only during the performance but also during the rest of my waking hours as no doubt with a view to economy, no extra help was engaged at any point.  We played only one night in each place and travelled, sometimes by rail or car and sometimes even on shanks’ mare if the distance was not too great, from point to point.  Monty’s son, Jimmie (poor lad) was our advance agent and his duties were to precede us by about a week to ten days, on a bicycle, pasting bills advertising the show wherever possible in, and in the vicinity of, the villages to be visited, hiring a hall for the performance and arranging for the hire of a piano if there was none in the hall.  When the party arrived the first thing to be done was the distribution of handbills along the streets and outside the schools and the arranging of the seating accommodation and placing of the piano by the male members, while the ladies occupied themselves in setting things to rights ‘back stage’.  I also sat at the receipt of customs, in the ticket box, when the doors opened and as soon as everybody was inside, I would close the door and dash round to the back of the stage to be ready for the ‘come on’ with the others.  The program lasted about 2.5 hours altogether, commencing usually at 8pm with an interval of 15 minutes.  During the first half the ‘sit around’ method was adopted as in a Pierrot show on the sands with all members of the party seated in a half circle on the stage, Gus and Monty acting as ‘corner men’, and each member rising and coming forward to do his or her turn in succession.  I usually sang a couple of songs, Mrs Stratton and Gus a semi humorous duet or two, Thelma Stratton sang and danced, while Monty and Gus kept the patter and announcements going from their respective corners.  The second half was another pair of shoes, consisting of individual turns and finishing up with a hilarious sketch.  The items, as billed, included ‘Thelma the Wonder Child’, ‘The Strattons, Scotch Character Duo’, ‘Professor Montague, Conjurer and Illusionist’ (Monty), ‘Maximillian Sylvester, Ventriloquist’ (Monty again) and ‘Donald Munro’ (myself) tenor vocalist.

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A note by Pat O’Neill about ‘The Concert Party’:

The concert party was usually composed of a group of singers, much like a small choir who performed popular songs as well as art songs. The concert party format was very popular at the time and still exists in various areas of the UK.

Although the music hall tradition continues today, during the beginning of 1900, music halls dominated the musical scene and virtually every town and village boasted music hall activities.

A very famous artist called Sir Harry Lauder was to become The World's Most Beloved Musical Humorist.  Follow the link and you will get an insight to not only Sir Harry but also to the idea of a concert party.

Here we go again!

Can it really be 3 months since I posted here?  What has been happening during that time?  Christmas was the biggy with family coming over to enjoy the fruits of my cooking in my old kitchen for the last Christmas before a total refurbishment.  But that is another story!  Various family birthdays; a new addition to our family of a boy to continue our family dynasty (can you hear the chords of Dynasty?) and so life goes on.

I promised to continue my Dad’s manuscript, the one I began transposing here below.  In the posts below he describes how the Japanese came to invade Java, Indonesia and how he and my mother became involved in some years of separate internments.  Now is the time to continue showing you his manuscript in which he describes briefly his experiences in prison as a prisoner of war during WWII.  Although they had hard times I do believe they were a lot more lucky than so many.  At least they came through it with their tale to tell unlike many of their dear friends.

One of the ways my Dad, who was ever resourceful, tried to keep his sanity during the long hours of inactivity was to cast his mind back to his youth to describe instances he could remember.  This actually gives a wonderful insight to life in Aberdeen in the period of 1919 onwards.  Please remember these are my Dad’s words as he wrote them.  There won’t be many, if any, pictures but his graphic way with words allows the reader to use their imagination to create real pictures in their minds as they follow his words.  All his words were written down by hand using any scrap of paper and a pencil that became a very small stump!  He found ways to hide all this but mostly the memories were kept in his mind to be written/typed at a later date.  These will be the words you will be reading.

There may be some foreign  words from the Dutch language since Java was part of the Dutch East Indies and my mother was Dutch herself.  English became very much the ‘indoors’ language or for English friends whilst the majority of the time Dutch was the main language.  Of course, having lived in this part of the world for some time local words from the Malaysian language or Japanese would also infiltrate at times.  Wherever possible I will try to translate!

And so, my friends, expect to find many chapters over a prolonged period of time.  Also, please remember these words are not for copying or publishing in any other format anywhere without the express permission of the author of this blog.  As the sub heading of this blog explains, ‘Many of us have precious thoughts within us and very precious memories. Unless, we explain or write about them they will remain within us and not be shared with the wider world.’  It is for this reason I felt duty bound to share my Dad’s memories to give a better insight to events of the time.  Otherwise, all would have been in vain and lost to the next generation had these memories not been passed down.

I will alert readers to new posts as they are completed but the easiest way of keeping up is to click the follow button, if you haven’t already, and in this way you will be able to keep up to date.

All I have left to say, is please sit back, grab a coffee or something stronger, and drift off to another era.  Do feel free to leave a comment but most of all, I urge you to enjoy the experience!

Thank you!

More activity

That afternoon we were unpleasantly surprised to observe a long procession of Japanese army trucks entering Houtmanstraat from the south. We quickly closed up the front of the house and remained doggo while the trucks were parked along the open ground opposite. When night came we showed no light and although there was a lot of commotion and shouting until a late hour, we were left undisturbed. The next morning when I left for the office, I found that the row of parked trucks already extended to almost opposite the house and many Japs were in evidence. About a couple of hours later I had a guarded telephone call from Ena.

"Can you come immediately?" she said. "We have visitors".

I knew what that meant. When I arrived I found a Jap sprawling in a chair on the verandah. Elly and Ena informed me hurriedly that they had had three Nips wandering through the house until about 10 minutes before but that the other two had left, leaving the sprawler behind. I went out to the verandah and sat down opposite him. There was nothing we could say to each other so we just sat in silence, smoking. I just decided that I had to sit him out if possible, or at any rate to wait long enough to try and discover what he was after. About an hour later, he managed to convey by signs that he wanted paper and a red pencil. On the paper he scrawled some weird looking Japanese characters and leaving the verandah affixed the paper to a wooden post on the edge of the field opposite the house. He did not return.

In a short time it became evident that this sign was an indication for parking more trucks which again started to arrive in large numbers so that in due course the line had extended some hundred yards past the house to the north. We were now under Japanese surveillance with a vengeance. By lying doggo again we escaped attention that evening, but many neighbours had unpleasant experiences of Jap visitors who made themselves objectionable in ways which we ourselves knew only too well.

The next day the three of us held a council of war. Elly was all for joining her mother in Tjitaroemstraat and was kind enough to suggest that Ena and I could also be accommodated there if we wished.

So the upshot was that we decided to move the next day. Again I rang up the piano people, who must have been getting fed up with me by this time, and the piano came to rest for the second time in his warehouse. Incidentally, we never saw it again.

The following day, Saturday, found us installed in Mrs Kruseman's annex at Tjiarroemstraat 14. We had the, by this time, usual difficulties in obtaining transport but with the aid of some coolies and a hand drawn cart, and a few journeys backwards and forwards by 'sad' (dog cart) we managed to send the frigidaire back to the Dagoweg and to bring our stuff and Elly's to our new santuary.

On the Thursday of this week a notice had appeared in the newspaper ordering all British subjects to report at the Police Headquarters for registration and this Ena and I had done. On Saturday, therefore, I notified them of my change of address so that it was certainly not my fault that they had so much trouble finding me on the night of the 14th.

At the beginning of this week, too, Sparkes and his wife had both collapsed from nervous strain and had taken up their abode in a joint room at the Borromeus Hospital. I still suspect that in some way or other (perhaps from his neighbour, Mrs Graven) he had had advance information of the registration, and, suspecting (as I did) that it was the preliminary move towards internment had thought to dodge the issue by being classed as a hospital case. If that was really his idea, he miscalculated by only one day.

I recall that I visited him in Borromeus on Saturday and referring half jokingly, to the registration, said, "Thursday, we register - Friday they prepare their lists - Saturday is a half holiday and Sunday a free day, so they'll intern us on Monday".

Sparkes left hospital on Monday and was picked up the following night, the fatal 14th April.

For the past ten days or so previous to our coming to rest at Tjitaroemstraat, there had been many rumours flying around about sudden raids being held by the Japanese usually at night. Today one would hear of a complex of houses on the Dagoweg having been entered and the men taken away and tomorrow another story of the same nature would be told concerning a street in another part of the town. Already the headquarters of the Kempetai (Japanese Gestapo) in the Neetjanweg had acquired a sinister reputation and whispers were heard of the tortures which the Japanese Gestapo resorted to in order to extract confessions, real or imaginary, from their victims. Any scepticism as to the truth of such seemingly incredible tales was due, alas, to fade away in the light of subsequent events.

On the morning of the 14th, Mrs Van Ginkel rang up. She said to Ena, "Bill is probably going on a journey, but you yourself not yet." This we interpreted as a hint that she had information to the effect that my internment was imminent, but as we had by now become somewhat fatalistic in our attitude towards this possibility, I am afraid we did not react in any particular way.

And so I arrive back at the moment when the stillness of the night of 14/15 April, 1942 was shattered by the peremptory ringing of the door bell at Tjiroemstraat 14.

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And so, my friends, we come to the conclusion of the first chapter of my Dad's manuscript. I hope you have enjoyed and learnt from this 'taster'. In the new year I hope to be able to transcribe the rest of the manuscript into book form which will be available for purchase. This will take a little while since there will be a lot of typing! The remainder of the manuscript includes a short daily, if somewhat brief, account of life in Sukamiskin Prison whilst at the same time my father describes in detail, moments of his life. There will be a wonderful insight into life in Scotland during the early 1920s; life as a youngster at school and beyond. This proved to be a clever way for my Dad to keep his mind exercised during very long boring hours whilst cooped up in a cell. Each word was written in pencil and as time went on and paper became scarce the writing became smaller and smaller. I still have some of the writings and even the stub of the last pencil used. For me, it has been an inspiration and has allowed me to 'rediscover' my father as a very keen, sensitive person who lived through troubled times but someone who still managed to keep his sense of humour and above all, his sense of worth.

New visitors!

It was, I think, on Friday, 26 March, in the second week of our return to 'Sunny Corner' that a further development occurred in our private affairs.  I had been going round to the office for a few hours each morning and it was during my absence, when Ena was alone in the house that the following happened.

Ena was washing the floor of the bedroom when she heard a car drive in.  Looking out she saw a Japanese woman and a European man coming towards the door.  A third man, also a European, remained in the car.

As they passed the bedroom window on their way to the door Ena addressed the woman, who, however, ignored her and by the time Ena got to the front room, the two visitors had already entered.

"Saya dari Generale Staf" ( I am from the Jap General Staff) announced the woman in Malay by way of introduction.  "Saya maoe pakai ini roemah". (I want to use this house)

Ena asked where we were supposed to go.  "Oh", was the reply, "You will be interned".  This unwelcome visitor then proceeded to inspect the house going through it as if it belonged to her.  While she was thus engaged the Dutchman (for such he proved to be) in a few remarks confirmed what his companion had already said and offered the information that the woman was Mrs Graven and introduced himself as Niekerk.

After her inspection, Mrs Graven returned to the front room and said to Ena, "I thought this house was bigger.   It is too small for me.  I have nine children."

She suddenly decided, apparently, to be friendly and drew Ena with her in to the rear sitting room closing the folding doors.  Niekerk returned to the car.  Mrs Graven had Ena sit down with her on the settee and started a long story as to how she and her husband and children had been interned by the Dutch.  She said that we were to be interned and advised our having suitcases packed against this, and advised Ena to conceal her rings etc in cakes of soap.  According to her, Ena and I would be interned together.  Although she herself would not now be taking our house, she warned that it would no doubt be occupied in due course by Jap officers.

She then left 'Sunny Corner' and it was not long before we learned that she went straight to the Sparkes' house and commandeered that.  The Sparkes family came to vacate almost immediately but fortunately were able to find accommodation in 'Cress Cottage' next door to their own house.  'Cress Cottage' had been occupied until recently by General Van Oyen, commander of the Air Force, but who had left for Australia shortly before the capitulation.  We did not envy the Sparkes family with the Gravens and their spawn as neighbours during the few weeks that followed.

Now, a word about this unsavoury trio who had thrust their way so unceremoniously into our lives.

Mrs Graven herself was Japanese and had lived, we learned, in Bandoeng for about 30 years.  She was the sister in law of Sakura, who had a long established and well known haberdashery on the Groote Postweg.  Her husband was a white Russian, a drunken sot, at one time reputedly an officer in the Russian Imperial Army.  The man Niekerk, who could only have been a traitor to his country, had at one time been employed in the Volkskreditbank (The People's Credit Bank) a sort of Loans Society but had retired, on money, I suspect, earned by espionage activities, and had built a complex of attractive bungalows some miles up the Lembanweg to the north of Bandoeng, occupying himself one of them with the exotic name of 'Nirvana'.  He also possessed a number of houses in the town itself.

It gave me great satisfaction to meet this individual again in Internment Camp #4, Tjimahi, early in 1944 and to find that he was mere skin and bone and hardly fit to move thanks to the starvation cure imposed on us all by his Nipponese friends.  I learned, too, that his traitorous activities were known to the Dutch authorities and I am satisfied that he will get  his due reward in due course, if he has not already got it.

These three individuals were just part of the scum which the Japanese stirring up had brought to the surface at this time.

At the first opportunity after this visit we informed our good friend, Lt Kagee, of what had transpired and he advised us if anything of the kind happened again to get on the 'phone immediately and let him know.  Before very long we were to be very grateful for this suggestion.

**** to be continued

Do I jump right in?

I have never been one to start at the beginning. However, I guess I really should give a little background which as time goes on will become more transparent, if that is the right way to describe this journey.

Dad, Bill short for William, was a canny Scot was born in Aberdeen, Scotland in 1903. Here he remained until his early twenties after graduating from school and some years working in the accountancy field. Always a man with a vision his eyes scanned towards the horizon for a new adventure, a new journey. One day as he glanced through a local paper he spotted an advertisement for someone to travel to Indonesia to train as a rubber planter! Yes, you guessed it. To cut a long story short he travelled out there which in those days was considered a monumental upheaval. Think of it, he was leaving the comfort of his home, his mother, father and sister to travel around to the other side of the world. The journey would take for ever and communications nigh on impossible. In those days, it really was immigrating unlike today when you can fly to the other end of the world in a matter of hours compared to sailing which would take you weeks.

In years to come he was to have spent about 5 years as a rubber planter but then decided to go back to accounting which the discipline he had followed in Scotland. By doing so he graduated to actually owning and running his own export/import business. Moving to Indonesia was to be instrumental to his meeting with my mother (Ena which was short for Gezina) who was Dutch and lived there with her widowed mother, sister and two brothers.

Here we have the engaged couple in 1933 surrounded with the many, many flowers sent by their numerous friends.

In 1934 my father and mother were to be married in Bandung, Indonesia on 23 January. It was a marriage made in heaven! Two soul mates who led a very full life together enjoying work and a wonderful social life. Still, that will be another story!

Meanwhile, we move forward to 1942 when Dad was aged 39 and living happily with my mother in a place called Bandung, Indonesia. On the map you will see it south east of Jakarta which is the capital. I would like to start with his own words as he described the start of an adventure he never ever thought he would have to endure and was to shape and influence the rest of his life. Please note that the language Dad used is not meant to offend but underlines a very strong sense of indignation whilst encountering the many difficult situations.

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Their Arrival

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"What is it?"

I am just slipping over the edge from waking to sleeping, but Ena's whisper recalls me sharply and I raise my head from the pillow, straining my ears to intercept the sounds which penetrate to the darkened room from the outside night.

Crunch! Crunch! The sound of heavy boots on the gravel path at some distance and a mumble of indistinguishable voices.

I look at my watch. It is only 11.05 pm. The date is 14 April 1942.

With mouth open so that nose breathing will not interfere with hearing, I lie tense, listening.

There is a sudden silence and then for the second time the same sounds are heard again. Then again silence which continues. I relax, grunt "Oh, it's nothing", lay my head in on the pillow and in a matter of seconds, am fast asleep.

Trrring! Trrring! Ena and I are immediately awake, startled into complete wakefulness by the ringing of the door bell in another part of the house. What we say to each other in these first moments, I cannot recall.

Trring! As I get out of the bed, the luminous dial of my wristwatch shows it to be 12.15 am.

I open the door of our bedroom and step out onto the verandah. At my appearance a group of dimly seen figures detaches itself from the shadows at the front of the house and moves towards me. As they come within range of the light which burns on the verandah, I realise with a sort of dull, apathetic shock "So, it has come at last!"

Behind me, Ena switches on the light in the bedroom. The light is reflected momentarily on the long, wicked looking bayonets carried by two apelike Japanese soldiers. A burly Jap officer, carrying his Samurai sword, pushes me and goes into the bedroom. A native Indonesian policeman steps under the verandah lamp and importantly consults a number of papers which he carries in his hand.

He speaks in Malay. " Your name - Grey-ig Smit?" (the name is Greig Smith but with an accent would sound different)

"Yes"

"Partner in the firm of De Koek, Spark-in and Co. Office situated at 59 Groote Postweg, Bandoeng?" (The spelling of Bandoeng was the old way of spelling today's Bandung but is still pronounced the same)

"Yes"

Sundry other questions as to nationality, date of birth, name of wife, etc which can all be answered in the affirmative and then the laconic order "Toeroet (come along)".

I go back into the bedroom to dress. Ena has hastily donned a dressing gown. The Jap officer sprawls, as only a Jap can sprawl, in a chair; his sword held in one hand between his wide spread knees. The two soldiers follow me inside and immediately begin rummaging about the room, opening drawers and cupboards, grinning and drawing each other's attention to the various articles they pick up and drop on the floor with complete indifference as their attention is drawn to some other object, for all the world like a pair of monkeys. The native policeman stays outside.

The Jap officer barks hoarsely,"Lekas, lekas!" (quickly, quickly). I dress hastily. I put on a jacket and take my topi (a light-weight hat worn in tropical countries for protection from the sun), but for some reason or other which even now I do not understand, do not put on my tie. Fortunately, my suitcase is fully packed as it has been since we were for the second and final time evicted from our house at Dennenlust on Good Friday, ten days ago, so I am soon ready.

At the last moment, I slip into my pocket the Penguin novel of which I had read the first few pages that night before going to sleep. The title is encouraging. It is 'Fate cannot harm me'.

Ena and I face each other. She looks at the Sumarai bearing lord of our destiny and says hesitantly, "Bolih tjioem?" (May we kiss?) We already are aware of the disapproval with which the Japanese regard western demonstrations of affection. The Jap grunts and nods an affirmative. We embrace. We whisper to each other quite silly inconsequential things. I say to her "Ring of Pierre", meaning our good friend Pierre Ursone who had said to me just a day or two before, "If you are interned, tell Ena to call me immediately and I will do all I can for her." Ena says to me "I'll let Dr Bijdeveld know," meaning she will inform my dentist with whom I have an appointment next morning that I won't be able to keep it. Only she has got her names mixed. She means Dr Beierwaltes.

I pick up my suitcase. The Jap lumbers to his feet. The two soldiers are behind me. Ena follows us out on to the verandah. I turn around, put my free hand on her shoulder and give it a squeeze. "Chin up, Wifie." We smile at each other. "Lekas, lekas!" I turn away and walk into the night surrounded by my escort. I do not look back, but I know that Ena is still standing there.

We won't see each other again for almost three and a half years.

**** to be continued.

My precious memories ....

Like all of us I have many precious memories that encompass my own previous years as well as some very precious memories of my parents and friends. By using this blog I would like to share some of these with you, the reader.

In particular, my Dad, was a great diarist whom I have never been able to emulate. He wrote prolifically over the years up to and including some of the last days of his life. I remember as a child how every night he would get his diary down from a shelf by his chair in the sitting room and begin to write up the days events. No matter how busy or what was happening in his life, notes would be written to record the events of his day. Each year that current diary would be completed and placed with all the others and a new one begun. It was only after my mother's passing, and many years have now since passed, that I feel able to sit down and pour over his words.

During my Dad's lifetime he wrote many words but especially during the second world war when he was interned by the Japanese in Indonesia. In fact, in his latter years he wanted to put together a book about his experiences but never really accomplished this. So, it came to me that rather than transposing his words into book format I might try to use modern technology (how he would have loved to done this!) and attempt in some small way to use his notes to portray life as he saw it. To this end I will post various chapters of his 'book'. I hope you will not only enjoy reading about another age but learn and take forward renewed hope too.