the rustling of the rain’s arrival. When the first drops hit the dusty ground, a heavy smell of soil arose from the earth, lasting only a few seconds. Shortly thereafter, the water would pelt and rattle on the shingles of the roofs and on the gravel, and gurgle through the drains and gutters. Just above the ground a slight mist of splashing drops would form. Every once in a while we were allowed to play in the rain. Naked and whooping, we’d then jump around in the abundant water falling straight down from the sky. The servants’ children stood in the doorway of their quarters and watched us in amazement. Who would be crazy enough to run around in the rain! It undoubtedly reinforced their own and their parents’ conviction that the belandas—the Dutch—had a screw loose.
In the evenings in the rainy season a thick cloud of larons, flying ants, would sometimes come plummeting down abruptly around the lamps. The humidity was causing the larvae to come out by the thousands from their eggs in the ground. They were gross and fat and whitish with transparent wings. It was the light of the floor lamp on the terrace that attracted them. They’d hit against the hot lamp and then fall thrashing to the ground. The servants caught them in a wajan, a large round iron pan we know as a wok, and fry them in their own fat. They considered it a delicacy.
Later the frogs would come to life again, croaking loudly into the night. Sometimes they’d suddenly fall silent all at the same time as if they were being directed by a mysterious conductor. Tucked away safely beneath your mosquito net, you’d listen to them.
At that moment the street vendors with their foodstuffs came by the homes. They had many customers in the European neighborhoods, too, because their merchandise was cheap and very tasty. You’d hear the recurrent, grinding squeak of the carrying pole they used to transport their wares. With a pounding heart you’d wait for their long-drawn-out melancholy call with which they recommended their dishes. The sound could fill you with a nameless shiver. And then the small oil lamp’s flickering flame would throw a ghostly pattern of light and shadow across the window as you lay trembling in your bed.
We were living in Surabaya; it was 1939, and I was six years old. My father was supply corps officer of the KNIL.2 He was responsible for the purchase of everything the army needed, from rice to clothing, from hardware to textiles, from footwear to soap.
He received the suppliers at his office in the tangsi, the barracks. They were always Chinese wholesalers, often accompanied by a nattily dressed young assistant, whose job it was to take notes in a little book or work out estimates on an abacus worn glossy from wear and tear.
At New Year’s and other celebrations these suppliers had gifts delivered to our home, such as fireworks, trinkets, delicacies, or a little basket with birds’ nests. My father would only accept small gifts, for in this society bribery was a frequently employed practice. When he was promoted to the rank of major, a magnificently adorned and lusciously prepared suckling pig was delivered to our house that very same evening. It was presented on an enormous, precious silver platter decorated with many artfully engraved ringlets and rosettes. The little animal had been arranged wholly intact on a bed of vegetables and fruit. What especially fascinated me was the pineapple he was holding in his snout. We ate the piglet with relish to the barely concealed disgust of the servants who, like most Javanese, were Muslim.
The next day my father sent the jongos, the houseboy, to the downtown office of the Chinese to return the gigantic platter. Still clutching it in his arms, he came back an hour later with the message: “The Cina says there’s a misunderstanding, Tuan,” he said with lowered eyes, trying to shove the platter into my father’s hands. But my father knew all too well what he could open himself up for with gifts such as these. “Once I get involved this way there’ll be no end to it,” he said; “it should stop with something insignificant.” That same platter went back and forth a few more times before the Chinese man gave up.
My father was a devoted equestrian. Next to the outbuildings behind the house was a stable with two horses. They were cared for by a spandri; this was a soldier close to retirement age who would be put into service for small chores. I liked going into the stable. It smelled nice, and the old man would be quietly busying himself with the animals, to which he talked uninterruptedly while the bats would swoosh high up in the beams. I’d sit on a little bench and watch him, the odor of the horses’ fresh sweat, urine, and leather all around me.
My father at work, formally receiving the second Japanese economic delegation and guiding them up the stairs of the palace of Governor-General Tjarda van Starkenborgh Stachouwer in former Batavia in June 1941. The man at the center is the diplomat Yoshizawa. During the banquet that evening, Yoshizawa invited my mother for a spree in Batavia nightlife. To encourage her, he presented her with a beautiful silver cigarette box. My mother declined politely. The silver box is still in my possession.
My father in the Soerabaiasch Handelsblad of August 30, 1939, on the occasion of his appointment as aide-de-camp to the governor-general.
My father rode every morning, no matter how late it might have been the night before. In the early dawn the stableboy was waiting for him next to the house, holding the reins of a horse restlessly shaking his head, scraping the pavement stones with his hooves.
After the ride the horse was wet with sweat, and his bit would be foaming. Sometimes his flank showed lashes from which drops of blood were welling up. He had been insubordinate during the jumps, and it was no use going up against my father, a rigid man, with that kind of behavior.
On 30 August 1939, the house was filled with flowers, and on the terrace the champagne corks were popping. My father had been named to the position of aide-de-camp to Governor-General Tjarda van Starkenborgh Stachouwer. A few weeks later we moved to Buitenzorg.
Note
2. KNIL: Royal Netherlands East Indies Army.
Chapter 3
BUITENZORG
Buitenzorg3 was still a very small town in 1939. This is where the governor-general traditionally resided, although most of the government services were located in Batavia. The small white palace was set in a spacious park on a hill. Guards stood at the entrance gate. About twenty deer were grazing on the large lawn. There were big ponds behind the palace, and then the land ran imperceptibly into the colonial botanical gardens.
I accompanied my mother a few times on her visits to this palace. Although it was by no means large, it was spaciously constructed with high ceilings and had an appealing aristocratic simplicity. The atmosphere was relaxed. The guards, the gardeners, and the servants were all extremely friendly. I liked going there. Years later, I learned that it had been President Sukarno’s favorite residence, a choice I can appreciate. Later still, I heard that President Suharto hadn’t dared set foot in there because it was the site of choice for Sukarno’s ghost to wander around at night. This, too, is a choice I can appreciate. Besides, I suspect that the ghost spent more time roaming around inside Suharto’s conscience than in the hallways of that charming little palace.
We lived in Buitenzorg for only a few months. We moved into a house on a hill just outside the residential area. It was a lovely house surrounded by a large garden. The living room had a little bar and even a fireplace. It had been the mayor’s house, my parents said.
In 1940 the Sitzkrieg in Europe had turned into a true Blitzkrieg. The Netherlands was occupied by the Germans. Japan waged a merciless war in China, and for
