Month: June 2013

Vera Radó:

It’s a miracle we survived – not only the years of imprisonment but the aftermath of the Japanese occupation. There was a full-scale revolution going on in Java, where the Japanese had for years brain-washed the younger generations of Indonesians to throw off the colonial yoke. The rampaging Indonesian youths (pemudas) imprisoned the Japanese, whom they had come to view as detested occupiers, then turned on us, hated colonials. They murdered a sizable number of former civilian prisoners, including women and children, before the British troops finally landed on Java and evacuated us to Singapore. Not too many people know about our plight during this political vacuum, yet it is part of World War II history.

My mother and I were eventually reunited with my father and Ivan in Surabaya. By then the city had become a cauldron of seething fanaticism and hatred. We barely escaped being attacked and butchered as we were taken to the harbor in a convoy of trucks with a Ghurka soldier positioned on the roof of each one, machine-gun ready. We traveled between thick rows of angry natives, hissing at us and looking very threatening. It was a great relief to embark on a British landing craft and watch Surabaya disappear in the distance.

We had been totally at the mercy of the Japanese occupiers, then again at the mercy of the rioting Indonesians. It was a wonderful relief to arrive in Singapore, even though we landed in another camp. But this was very different. We were free, we were well-fed, and – above all – we were safe!

We learned later that the atomic bombs had ended the war. It killed many Japanese civilians, men, women and Children, but it also wsaved hundreds of thousands oflives of prisoners of the Japanese, like us. Violence, death and destruction are inevitable in wars, but we have to take a balanced view, because all sides suffer casualties. In the end, nobody wins.

This concludes the memoir of  Vera Radó, who survived to tell her story, lest we forget. Vera currently lives in Australia.

Next week you will find excerpts from the memoir of camp survivor on Java, who currently lives in Canada.

I welcome your comments and additions. Please let me know your thoughts.

Until next time,

Ronny

Vera Radó:

One year after our arrival at Tangerang, we were put on a transport again, this time to Camp Adek in Batavia, where we joined about 4500 other women and children from that region. Although this concentration camp was larger than Tangerang, room was at a premium. We were packed into the wards like sardines; each individual got 55 cm of space. By this time we had all been whittled down in size by poor nutrition and sickness, but 55 cm is a tiny space for living, sleeping and eating. There was, of course, never a lack of border disputes – sometimes very loud ones. Tempers were easily aroused, as everyone was under stress, hungry and irritable. Women  who were responsible for small children, in particular, were under almost unbearable pressure to keep themselves and their offspring alive.

Rumors kept flying around of great successes by the Allies and of impending liberation, but nobody had a radio. The regular house searches had seen to that, so we did not know what was really happening. In fact, we were completely cut off and isolated from the outside world. The rumors actually kept us going, because by this time – mid-1945 – we were nearing the end of our endurance. Many of the very old and the very young had died, and even young girls of my age group were getting ill and dying with increasing frequency.

There was a small team of women in our camp, detailed to build coffins – made of woven and split bamboo – for burying the dead, and they were kept increasingly busy. By this time the death rate had risen go four to five persons per day. Most of us had lapsed into a state of apathy, consistent with long-term starvation. I myself found that I no longer very much cared whether I was going to die in this wretched camp or be liberated. We were all dreaming of food. It became a major preoccupation with many, even an obsession, resulting in the incessant exchange of recipes for one or the other divine dish.

We were also beginning to disbelieve the rumors of Allied victories. So far they had been proven false. Maybe the Japanese were winning, and maybe we would all soon be dead. I certainly felt that I would not last another six months. At nineteen, I was minus energy, suffering from chronic diarrhea, the beginning of beri-beri, and incapable of any great physical effort such as digging gardens and growing vegetables, which had been my previous task. I was given permission to resign and rest in the garden under trees, adjacent to the tenko field.

Then, suddenly, in mid-August, we were getting more food – an extra leg of beef, more vegetables from the markets, even a small fish each. Oh, the smell of it! We couldn’t believe it at first, then started to suspect that something important had happened. It was not until mid-September 1945 that we received orders to assemble at the tenko field, and were told that the war was over. Just that, no explanation, no further information, except that we were also told we could leave the camp ‘at our own risk’. We soon found out why. Two women who left for their home in the city were ambushed by rioting young Indonesians and murdered.

©1995

To be continued…

I welcome your comments and additions. Please let me know your thoughts.

Until next time,

Ronny

Vera Radó:

Tangerang Camp consisted of large wards built around two courtyards with a central kitchen, flanked by four rows of single cells (meant for the worst offenders?). The wards had wooden boards two meters wide, running along both sides in two tiers, one at a height of one meter, the other above that at about two meters from the floor, with a ladder in each corner to climb to the ‘top floor’. My mother and I found room at the top; the climb up the ladder was definitely worth the airier aspect of the upper story.

Here we lived for a year on hard work and diminishing food rations. Our daily meal consisted of one ladleful of glutinous sago porridge in the morning and a 5 cm wide piece of bread made of unleavened cornflour. Half of this piece was meant for our evening meal. At midday we received one cup of boiled rice and one scoop of watery vegetables, in which our ‘meat’ ration was also cooked. With a bit of luck we at times found one or two small cubes of meat – mostly tripe – floating in the brew on our individual plates. The Japanese got incensed if we complained about the small rations, and told us we should be grateful for what we got, as food was in short supply. They themselves looked well-fed.

Soon, every second person contracted malaria, and all of us had at least one bout of dysentery. I got both diseases, but – thanks to my mother’s foresight in packing quinine – at least the malaria could be controlled. The dysentery kept recurring all through my imprisonment, and to this day I am suffering from the damage to my digestive system. My mother had an extremely painful episode with a kidney stone, for which there was no painkiller strong enough in her medicine kit. Fortunately, she passed the stone after a few days and was put on light kitchen duties, cleaning the vegetables grown by our “garden team” of which I was a part.

The worst experiences in this camp were the periodic visits by the supreme commander over all camps in Western Java, Captain Sonei. This individual was a lunatic – in the true sense of the word. He was reputed to go out of his mind at full moon. We were notified of his visits the day before, and ordered to have everything looking neat and tidy.

On the day (of his arrival) we had to line up on the tenko field where daily roll call was held. As Sonei entered with his interpreter, we received a command “Kiutske!” (stand at attention), while he climbed the dais. At the command “Kèrèh!” we bowed deeply to acknowledge his supremacy over us, miserable wretches, then came “Norèh!” (at ease), after which he would shout, rant and rave at us for about an hour, pausing at times for the interpreter to translate in Malay. His speech was always the same – we owed deep gratitude to his divine emperor’s great bounty in providing us with food and a roof over our heads. Any complaints or breaches of the rules would be severely punished.

Then came the moment we were all dreading. Sonei would pause, sweep us with a malevolent glare, and pick out someone at random from our ranks, gesturing for the woman to come forward and stand in front of him. This poor, defenseless victim would then be beaten senseless with open hands and fists, until she fell to the ground, when she was given a few hefty kicks with his boots. “And this,” Sonei would say with a nasty smirk, pointing to the bleeding body at his feet, “is your example. This is what happens to those who disobey the rules.”

One of his victims died of internal injuries. (After the war) Sonei was tried by the Dutch for war crimes and hanged. He professed not to understand why he received such harsh punishment, since he was only doing his duty for his emperor.

© 1995

To be continued…

I welcome your comments and additions. Please let me know your thoughts.

Until next time,

Ronny

Vera Radó:

In March 1944 we were ordered to pack, loaded onto a long train the following morning and moved to the other end of Java, to a small town called Tangerang, 20 km west of Batavia (Jakarta). The train journey, which normally would have taken twelve hours, took three days in a train with all windows and doors locked and all blinds down, and with no provision for food or water.

On the second day, at our request, as all of us, but especially the children, were limp with thirst, we stopped for water from a railway siding pump (for filling up the steam trains) and promptly got the runs. Our carriage was packed with bodies; we sat on the floors and in the aisles. The seats were for the elderly. The single toilet soon overflowed, and thereafter became a disaster area, defying all description.

On the third night we arrived at a dismal looking dimly lit station, and had to walk for almost an hour to our destination. The smaller children had to be carried, as they were too exhausted to walk. We finally reached a large building behind a massive bamboo-and-wire fence with four watchtowers, one on each corner. Although there was some food ready for us to eat, all most of us were capable of doing was to find a place to stretch out and sleep. I have never slept so soundly on a hard wooden board!

We found out later that our new ‘home’ was a former corrective institution for delinquent youths. We also discovered that we had been traveling with about 1500 other women and children from the “Darmo Camp” in Surabaya plus the contingent of about 100 Iraqi women and children from whom we had been separated earlier in Werfstraat Jail.

© 1995

To be continued…

I welcome your comments and additions. Please let me know your thoughts.

Until next time,

Ronny

Vera Radó:

The most distressing part of our jail existence was the witnessing of the torture of political prisoners, sometimes by sight, but mostly by sound. Opposite our enclosure was a row of small cells. Men were taken daily from there to another part of the jail back of our compound. We could clearly hear the bellowing of the Japanese and the men’s terrible screams. One man kept shouting for his mother. After the interrogation, having been beaten unconscious, the men were taken away on a stretcher and thrown back into their cells. We could not escape this horror. It went on incessantly and relentlessly.

Once, we saw above the top of our wall, a man being tortured on the upper gallery of the administration building opposite. This poor unfortunate had his wrists tied behind his back, and had been hoisted up by his hands until he stood on tiptoe. A Japanese soldier was barking at him, stabbing him repeatedly with a burning cigarette. I quickly turned away my eyes, but the picture will always remain with me. At another time, a woman, who had been locked up in a dark cell in solitary confinement for some weeks, was released into our section and promptly committed suicide by hanging herself in her cell. It was left to her young son to cut her loose. These events unnerved us all.

© 1995

To be continued…

I welcome your comments or additions; please let me know your thoughts.

Until next time,

Ronny