12 August 1942

Alarm went last night at 9pm.  Lights out.  Also alarm twice during the night and during this morning.  Definitely practice.  Did not sleep too well, suspect a broken rib.  Pain continuous and troublesome in movement and breathing.  Will consult doctor on Friday if no improvement – and if he comes.  He did not turn up yesterday nor on the previous doctor’s day last Friday.  Overweg, the medical attendant, told us then there was a new doctor and would accept no orders for so called medical supplies for that reason.  These supplies included sugar, soya sauce, powdered condensed milk etc made up by the chemists shops to look like medicines.  On a packet of sugar, for example, is a label stating ‘Sach. Album (Latin for white sugar) One tablespoonful 3 times daily’ and soya is described as ‘Extr. Hispidae’ or ‘Prophyl Malaria as formerly’.  Milk has no longer been procurable for about 6 weeks now.  It will be  a pity if we cannot obtain further supplies but as we are now more accustomed to the very plain diet, that will not upset us so much as it would have, say, a couple of months ago.

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Alex Simpson had received his early training in a lawyer’s office and that influence was evident in the deliberation with which he spoke and acted.  Very long winded on occasion, he just escaped being a bore.  In appearance he was of average height, rather thin faced, with dark brown hair and moustache sprinkled with grey and blue eyes behind his pince nez.  His nose was rather red as is usually the case with dyspeptic persons.  By the very deliberateness which was as dear to him in his lawyer like manner, he greatly irritated those whose maxims were speed in action and quickness of decision.  Unfortunately, to his own detriment, two of those who took exception to this manner were Sir Thomas himself and James Fiddes.  He was no sycophant and, although it was unwise, there was much to be admired in his attitude to the Actuary.  If Sir Thomas emerged from his sanctum to consult his accountant and the latter happened to be engaged in writing at the moment, Simpson would keep the Actuary waiting at his desk while he calmly completed the sentence (he was a deliberate in writing as in speech) and then raise his head and regarding Sir Thomas with a bland smile, would say ‘Well, Sir Thomas?’  That this attitude did not endear him to his chief speaks for itself.  But it was of James Fiddes he had most to beware.  This was evident to the most junior.  Fiddes had an ingratiating manner where Sir Thomas was concerned and his feeling of enmity towards Simpson was very evident.  Simpson was between two fires, therefore, as represented by his chief’s dislike of his independent manner and the enmity of his immediate inferior.  As was to be foreseen, this situation resulted, I believe, in Simpson's being worked out of his position in the Bank some years after I had left the service.  There was not a trace of snobbishness about Simpson, witness my own aspirations in regard to his daughter, he would kowtow to nobody and was, in general, kindly and considerate to the staff.  But he did lack the necessary force of personality to succeed in his attitude and principles.  As Douglas Campbell, who had the gift of summing up a man’s character in a few words, said of him, ‘Simpson is a human man, but he is not a manly man’.

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Out from 4.15 to 6pm.  Two ball games.  Did not take part in physical exercises on account of rib.  Hear that Fatty was bitten in the thigh by a dog last night.  The second officer is still with us however.

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Speaking of Fiddes once, Doug remarked ‘Fiddes is a man to whom music means tinkling sounds on a piano’.  And that indeed typified James Fiddes in a nutshell.  He was a man to whom the arts were so many closed books, a cold, calculating, efficient human machine.  He had a brilliantly logical brain and was obviously destined to rise high, which I understood he did in later years when all the Savings Bank in Scotland were brought under one organisation.  In appearance he was tall, well built and very blond and active in movement.  He spoke rapidly and incisively.  His walk was peculiar for a man of his build.  He always took short quick steps raising himself each time in the toes of the foot on the ground while the other foot was advancing, with the result that his progress was a continual bobbing up and down, as well as a forward movement.  Frankly, I did not like the man.  Toadyism and ruthlessness have always disgusted me and in my opinion Fiddes had more than a small share of both these qualities.  I may be wronging the man in this judgment but as he evidently disliked me I may be pardoned somewhat for my prejudice.

1 August 1942

Did some washing and mending.  Out from 5.30 to 6.30.  Walk round only.

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Not that much drinking was done.  I suppose the maxim allowance of whisky per man did not exceed a couple of drams altogether, but as all were very abstemious, as indeed the great majority of Scotsmen in Scotland are, even the smell of the cork, as the saying is, was enough to make them jolly and in high fettle to celebrate Hogmanay.  The supper which was the real Scotch ‘high tea’ in its finest form, used to be sat down to, I think, about 10pm in the kitchen.  Two tables were set, one for the grownups and one for the children, both completely covered with good things to eat.  The ‘piece de resistance’ was invariably a plateful of sliced cold meat or ham for each person with plenty of bread and butter and good strong tea, and an abundance of plain and sweet cakes, fruit and sweets.  A feast fit for a king.  then there were the Christmas crackers at each plate which had to be pulled before the serious business of eating commenced and the paper hats donned and fortunes read which each contained.  Such a noise of joyous excited babble and merriment as would have thawed the heart of any misanthrope.  We children, I imagine, were too much occupied in giving our attention to the good things to eat to do much else, but the grownups’ table was the centre of almost continuous laughter as the one amusing anecdote or funny story followed the other.  This reminds me of an amusing incident which occurred one Hogmanay supper in a later year when I myself had already qualified for a seat among the grownups.  For some reason or other, on that occasion, probably as an overflow from the children’s table, my little cousin George Rickart, then about six years old was seated with the grownups.  The usual stories were being told when, after the burst of laughter following the conclusion of some yarn had almost subsided, little George, in his shrill treble piping, shrieked out, ‘I know a story – I know a story’, until to silence him someone said, ‘Well, tell us your story, George.’  And George delivered himself at the top of his voice of the following:

‘There was a boy sitting in the class and there was another boy sitting behind and the teacher asked the boy, ‘Boy, who made you?’ and the boy stuck a pin in him and the boy said, ‘Oh, Christ!’

Poor George!  I doubt if a funny story ever fell flatter.  There was absolute dead silence for a moment while each one round the table avoided looking at the other then everybody started talking at once, desperately intent on changing the subject.  On the whole, self control was wonderful.  Only my aunt Margaret’s feelings got the better of her.  I still see her clapping her hands over her mouth and rising hastily from the table and leaving the room precipitately, to reappear some five minutes later still wiping her streaming eyes, having had her laugh out in the privacy of her bedroom.  Talking of funny stories, it is interesting and amusing to recall the type of story which was considered improper in those far off days and I ask myself whether it is a good or a bad sign that what was looked upon as improper then appears trivial and even childish to us at this day.  For instance, I remember a party given at our house round about one New Year to which the family Primrose, who occupied the flat above ours, had been invited.  Now, Johnny Primrose was a jolly, fat little man, always brimful of good spirits and apparently just the sort of person to keep the fun going in any company.  All went well until we were seated at supper.  Johnnie Primrose had fulfilled all expectations, and everybody was in high good humour and spirits when our guest, no doubt emboldened by his success as a fun maker, overstepped himself and lost face with that company for all time by telling this tale:

‘A boy, carrying a baker’s basket, entered a railway carriage and deposited the basket on the luggage rack above the seat.  At the next station, an old gentleman came into the same compartment and seated himself, by chance, under the basket.  After a time he became conscious of some slight discomfort and casting his eyes above beheld the basket.  Removing himself hastily to another part of the compartment he said to the boy, ‘Boy, your pies are leaking.’ ‘It’s nae pies mister’, replied the lad, ‘it’s puppies’.

Believe it or not, the assembled company simply froze nor did they thaw during the whole rest of the evening, Johnnie Primrose had put himself beyond the pale once and for all.  Poor innocent man!  One shudders, contemplating his crime, to think of what must have been really acceptable as funny stories in those days.

But to get back to our Hogmanay gathering of the clan.  We rose from the table shortly before midnight and returned to the sitting room where glasses were hastily charged and the windows thrown open to catch the first strokes of the hour which heralded the passing of the old and the coming of the new year; and in a hush in which the whole town, nay, the whole world, seemed to be listening, there would boom out from the far off steeple of St Nicholas Church the first stroke of twelve, to be immediately taken up by church bells in every part of the city and by the sirens of all ships in the harbour.  And then such a hand shaking and embracing among our company in that really sacred moment when hand clasped hand and foolish misunderstandings of the past year were wiped out as if by magic and eye met eye and heart met heart with pure love and affection.  And then one seats himself at the piano and, all standing, ‘Auld Lang Syne’ is sung with full voices and hearts eye, and with a tear as well.  For to whom does ‘Auld Lang Syne’ mean so much as to a Scotch company and what memories come crowding in upon us when we hear that refrain on Hogmanay night?  Even now my eyes are wet when I recall all the associations whcih it has for me.  Hogmanay such as I have described and others later with a steadily and sadly diminishing family circle.  Hogmanays spent in solitude, a stranger in a strange land and far from my ain folk with only memories for company.  But there, let me thank God in all gratitude for such memories.  Immediately after the New Year had been thus ushered in with due ceremony occurred the great event of that wonderful night for us children.  All at once there would come a thunderous knocking at the outer door and our hearts would jump into our mouths because we knew that that wonderful person, Santa Claus had again condescended to hear our petitions and had come laden with the most marvellous yet vaguely familiar voice – nothing more.  One of my aunts, Innes most probably, would go to the door, and opening it just a crack would ask, ‘Who do you want Santa?’, while we congregated in the dimly lit lobby, agog with excitement mixed with awe of the unknown.  Then the mysterious voice would say a name and the child called would go to the door.  And beyond, the door would be opened and nobody would be seen without.  But see – there on the mat, what is that?  A parcel, two, perhaps even three parcels, all bearing the name of the child whose name had been called.  And so in turn, until Santa has delivered his gifts to all.  No need to describe excitement and shrieks of childish joy attendant on the opening of the  parcels, which, in the majority of cases, contained the recent heart’s desire of every child present.  And so the Hogmanay reunion comes to an end and already the reaction of the unwonted late hour and emotion has set in for the still very little ones.  The break up of the clan commences, the married folks with their kiddies returning to their own homes, while the younger members depart on a round of ‘first fittin’ which would probably continue till dawn.  And so the years ended and began in the halcyon days of my happy childhood.

31 July 1942

To doctor.  Urine OK.  Trouble no doubt caused by cold. On our side no sun until afternoon.  Many others suffering same complaint.  Out 5.20 – 6.15.  Started PT by By but stopped by PB as B not able to remember exercises of previous day.

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Another effort on the part of my uncles to amuse me was the ‘down’ bed.  I suppose that I myself with my then limited vocabulary was responsible for the description.  Our house and that of my grandparents were only a matter of 50 yards apart although in different streets.  We were ‘just round the corner’ from each other, with the result that ‘Smithy’, as I called myself, was rather oftener to be found in the latter house than in the former.  So when I issued the decree, ‘Smithy sleep here tonight’, the down bed was conjured up.  This bed was nothing more or less than a small mattress which was apparently kept under the bed in my uncle’s bedroom but it was made like a magic carpet to me.  Before retiring, Johnnie would take me into the bedroom, and standing in front of the real bed, with many mysterious passes of the hands and cries of ‘Open Sesame’, would cause the ‘down’ bed to come forth from its lair.  And while I gazed with eyes round with wonder, the ‘down’ bed would glide from under the valance, a few inches at a time with each call of the ‘Open Sesame’, and pass with the hands.  This magic impressed me very greatly and it was quite a long time before I discovered that my uncle Joe, concealed under the bed, was responsible for the mysterious progress of the ‘down’ bed.  Oh, happy happy days!  And what could equal the joy of a party on Hogmanay night, which was a real family reunion in the best sense of the word.  And as the years passed more grandchildren appeared, several marriages having taken place in the family in the interim, it seemed to be a case of ‘the more the merrier’.  On that great day, we children were put to sleep early in the afternoon and awakened only in time to dress and fully wake up about 8pm.  These parties followed the main, year after year, a sort of fixed routine in so far as the same songs were sung, the same games played.  But these, generally speaking, had a significance for our charmed circle only.  Take for instance, ‘The Demons and the Fairies’.  How this originated, I do not know, but it was never neglected.  All the children and some of the male grownups would go out of the sitting room where the company was assembled.  My aunt Innes, that dear self sacrificing soul (and it was always Innes) would sit down at the piano and commence a tremolo of tinkling sound on the high keys.  This was the signal for the children to come dancing into the sitting room doing their best to represent the ‘joie de vivre’ of the fairy world while the company applauded their efforts.  This was no sooner accomplished than the tones from the piano changed to a  deep bass rumble which gave their cue to the Demons represented by the few male grownups, who would then burst into the room on hands and knees, growling like beasts (or demons) and with gnashing of teeth would endeavour to grasp the children with their fearful claw like hands.  Such shrieks from the children, such awe inspiring growls as filled the air for some minutes!  a veritable pandemonium.  But of course the Demons never succeeded in their fell purpose.  The rest of the adult company would protect the Fairies and then drive the Demons with a combine rush out into the outer darkness of the lobby.  Each child had its opportunity of singing a little song, giving a recitation, or a dance, and I do not believe that any of them ever neglected the opportunity.  My cousins, Elizabeth and Margaret sang on one occasion a duet of which I recall only the following:

‘Oh, the sports of childhood
Roaming through the wild wood
Tripping through the meadows
Happy and free.’

and which was voted a great success.  Another childish song, by whom rendered I fail to remember was:

‘I’m a little busy bee, roaming in the clover,
Here I go, there I go, all the meadows over.
Hear me singing merrily – Bzzz- Bzz.
Ever singing merrily – Bzzz – Bzz.’

Of all the items rendered by the grownups I believe the most popular was always my grandfather’s rendering of ‘I traced her little foot steps in the snow’.  This ditty dealt with the going astray of a loved one during a snowstorm and the chorus of ‘I traced her little foot steps, etc’ was always accompanied by a few steps of a dance of grandfather’s own invention.  An innovation which he introduced one year quite brought the house down.  At the last chorus, he dipped his hand into his jacket pocket and brought out a handful of confetti which he sprinkled over his head while doing the dance.  It was a huge success.  The we had my uncle Jim who gave us the ballad ‘Lucky Jim’.  This ballad, a humorous one, dealt with ill luck of the singer as compared with that of his friends. ‘Lucky Jim’, the last verse related:

‘Years rolled on and death took Jim away, boys,
Left his widow and she married me
Oft I think of Jim so long at rest, boys,
Sleeping in the churchyard by the sea’

Chorus:  ‘Oh lucky Jim, how I envy him.’

or words to that effect.  It was a great favourite.  There was always a vocal item by George Rickart, my aunt Helen’s husband, who sang a song in Irish dialect which commenced:

‘As I went out one evening to Tipperary town,
I met a little colleen among the heather brown.’

which ended with :

‘Och, the little pigs had done
Oh, the dear little girl.’

Then there was the duet by Helen and George ‘Prithie, pretty maiden’ which is I believe, from one of the Gilbert and Sullivan’s operas, and Helen herself singing ‘My dear soul’ and ‘My curly headed babby’/  What a treat were their solos and what a glorious contralto voice she had.  I believe Helen once had an offer to record for ‘His Majesty’s Voice’ records and declined.  A great hit of the evening was always my uncle Pat’s rendering of ‘Every bullet has its billet’ which contains the lines:

‘Pass the grog round
Mind don’t spill it.’

and which was always, by general acclaim on the part of the men folk, repeated ad lib, until my aunt Margaret, who acted as barmaid on those occasions took the hint and recharged the glasses with mountain dew.

30 July 1942

Out 5.30 to 6.30.  PT from By ( a Dutch internee who was a physical training instructor) who was constantly interrupted by PB.  Change of guard – better type.  We are daring to talk between cells.

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And, talking of memories, I believe the first thing I vividly remember in my life is standing on a low stool at the sink in the scullery of my maternal grandparent's house, drinking chloride of lime out of a bottle.  I could not have been more than 3 years old then but still old enough to get into mischief which might easily have had fatal results.  I remember spitting the stuff out as soon as it touched my tongue – not really a spit at that age, of course, but a slobber, and I heard in later years that a blue anchor which was embroidered on the front of the little jacket I wore, was bleached white in consequence.  Looking back, it seems as if all the mischief I got into between the ages of 3 and 6 took place in my grandparent’s house, probably because, I spent more time there than anywhere else.  I was the first surviving grandchild (my parents’ first born having died in infancy) and consequently must have been made much of by my mother’s still unmarried 4 brothers and 5 sisters as well as by the grandparents.  I think the very strong Clan feeling which I have and my ever earnest wish to keep all branches of my mother’s family united, no matter how far scattered over the earth they may be, must spring from the happy days when family affection was lavished upon me by all those dear people who are now so far away from me and from each other.  They, no doubt, remember vividly my almost setting the house on fire.  The smoking of cigarettes by my uncles aroused in me a keen desire to emulate them in the art of sending forth lovely clouds of smoke, and this desire, coupled with the fascination which the lighting of matches seems to possess for most children, led me to an act which might have had serious consequences.  I must have been between 4 and 5, I think, when one day, having found a cigarette end and provided myself with a box of matches which had been carelessly left lying about, I crept into one of the bedrooms and, standing before a low dressing table, the mirror of which was draped with muslin curtains after the fashion of those days, I endeavoured to light up.  In keeping my attention concentrated on the cigarette stub just below my nose, I had not noticed that one end of the mirror draping, blown by the wind from the open window, had made contact with the flame of the match.  Just as I had succeeded in achieving my first puff, I raised my eyes in time to see the flames spread to the window curtains.  Realising that I had done something very, very wrong, I must have decided that silence is golden.  My guilty conscience prompted me, I presume, to say nothing about it, so I just left the room hurriedly and, closing the door behind me, returned to the kitchen, trying to look as innocent as possible.  Fortunately, the opening of the door allowed the smell of burning to penetrate through the house, so that the outbreak was almost immediately discovered and the fire extinguished before very much damage had been done.  I cannot recall having been punished for this bit of serious mischief.  I should probably have been a better man today if I had been.  A  minor crime of mine in that house during those years was the smashing of practically every ornament on the kitchen dresser on at least two occasions.  In extenuation, however, I should mention that I am sure that dresser did not stand firmly on its four feet.  Anyhow, romping about the room, I brought up against the dresser with sufficient force to dislodge all vases, knick knacks etc, thereon with disastrous effect on those same.  I remember that my Grannie used to say that my first week’s wages must be forfeited to replace the damage.  I regret to say that I never fulfilled that expectation.  My uncles, Joe and Johnnie, were then mere lads of about 16 and 17 and I owe them the memory of many happy and thrilling hours in the old house.  They created for my especial benefit a secret society called ‘The Black Hand’ gang whose meetings used to be held in great secrecy and with much mysteriousness in one of the bedrooms once a week.  I used to be warned in conspiratorial undertones by one of the other that a meeting was to be held at such and such a time and would creep to the bedroom door and knock for admission in the prescribed secret manner.  The door being opened about an inch, the password would be demanded of me.  ‘Death and Blood’, or some such horrifying expression, and then I would be admitted to the gang’s secret meeting place.  The only light in the room came from one candle on the dressing table with, as background, a grim skull and crossbones symbol inked on a white cloth draping the mirror.  We three would sit around the guttering candle and discuss, in whispers, our plans for the stealing of the Crown Jewels or some such deed of daring.  There were all sorts of secret signs and oaths of secrecy to be sworn on every occasion and altogether the meetings of ‘The Black Hand’ gang provided me with such a thrill as I have never experienced since.  On meetings nights, I wore one of my father’s cast off jackets which had a piece of white cloth, on which a life size black hand was painted, sewed on to the lining on the left side.  In addition to the secret knock and password, the jacket had to be opened and the mystic sign displayed before admittance could be gained.  While the gang was functioning, my sister fell ill with scarlet fever, and, according to health regulations, all our clothes were taken away to be fumigated and decontaminated.  We often wondered what the authorities thought when the sign of the Black Hand was revealed!

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!

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.