Proudery and Arrogance

by AGNES NEWTON KEITH

1

IN the prison compound, behind a thirty-foot wooden boarding, we listened not once but many times to the addresses from Japanese commanding officers, which reiterated the following sentiment: “You British are a fourth-class nation now. Therefore your treatment will be fourth-class, and you will live and eat as coolies. In the past you have had proudery and arrogance. You will get over it now!”

Our new camp was built over the excrement pits of the soldiers’ camps, where the ground was full of hookworm and the air was full of mosquitoes.

We had begged Colonel Suga, the Japanese Commandant, not to move us to this place, pleading that the children would die of hookworm as they had no shoes and the adults would die of malaria as they had no medicines; that we should die of starvation as we had no garden; that we should all die of the move anyway, as we were overworked and underfed.

Colonel Suga answered that it was too bad and he was very sorry, but we must be removed from the sight of our husbands. In the present camp, husbands and wives stared longingly at each other through the barbed wire, one hundred yards apart; and such looks “gave very bad impression”; such looks, although longing bodies were separated by wire and space, were injurious to the morale of the Japanese officers and soldiers, who did not have their wives with them. He could not move our husbands to the new camp, he said, because it was half a mile farther down the road and he did not trust them so far from the Japanese headquarters. Husbands might smuggle — might even escape! But ladies he trusted.

So we “trusted ladies” were to move camp at nine o’clock that morning. My three-year-old son George and I had been ill for several days with malaria, he with a very high temperature. I had had no sleep, and I was dopey with fever and fatigue. Now moving day had come, muster was called, and I was not there.

I arrived at the camp square ten minutes late, dragging two suitcases and George, he feverish but uncomplaining, with an unchildlike submission to pain, which hurt me more than his tears. In the square there were eight other women and five children standing at attention, under arrest for being late. The rest had left for the new camp.

The Nipponese officer was furious with us. We had insulted him and the entire Japanese Army by being late. Therefore we would spend the day standing in the public square, and the night in the guardhouse, and not proceed to the new camp until tomorrow, in order to wipe out the insult we had paid the Japanese Army by being late.

Meanwhile Lieutenant Nekata, the local commander of our camp under Colonel Suga, rested in the shade of the trees near-by, watching the movers at work. His polished Army boots were off, his stocking-clad feet propped upon a tree trunk, his trousers undone and open, with cotton underpants visible. If the Britons built their Empire in dress suits, the Japanese were equally determined to tear it to pieces in their underpants.

The movers themselves matched the goods that they handled; they, like our material belongings, were broken-down, ragged, pathetic; they, like our beds, chairs, stools, and tables, were inelegant but invaluable. Shirtless, shoeless, stockingless, hatless, each one bandaged, with a septic leg or arm, a cough, a limp, a droop — in the past these men had suffered from excess punctilio; today they scarcely had pants. Yet when one looked from them to Nekata, one could appreciate the fact that even without pants they could still be distinguished from apes.

Our husbands soon finished their moving work, and I saw Harry look anxiously over at me in the punishment party before he disappeared into his own camp. We had been told to stand at attention for punishment; soon we just stood, and then we sat.

It was twelve o’clock now, and very hot, and we were in the sun, and George became sick at his stomach. I carried him over to the side of the road and placed him in the shade of a tree, and stayed there with him. Soon we all moved under the trees, opened our baskets, and took out the bottles of boiled water and tea without which we never left camp. Lieutenant Nekata watched us without comment.

After a while Teresa, another of the late ones, who was 101 per cent Mother Love, came to me and said, “ You should tell Nekata that George is ill. Tell him we are all very sorry we were late, and ask him to let us go on to the new camp now. Perhaps he’d do it.”

“No, I’m not going to. He’s just sitting there waiting for us to plead with him. Look at him, with his pants half off! I’m sick of these Nips! No! We were late, and they can punish us.”

But I did go to Nekata and say, “It is lunchtime, and we have no food. Will you send rations for the children?” He nodded “Yes,” and I returned to tell the others. We made a little fire with twigs and started boiling water for tea.

Then “Wilfred,” the civilian Japanese interpreter for the military, came over to me. Nekata had sent him to ask if George was ill. I said yes, he had malaria; yes, that was why I was late to muster. Several voices around me spoke up and said the children were not well, it was too hot for them, we all felt ill, and could we not go on to the new camp now?

Wilfred returned to Nekata and reported. After some time he came back and ordered us to go over to the Lieutenant. We did so, and stood at attention before Nekata, who still lolled at ease with trousers agape. Nekata spoke, and Wilfred interpreted: —

“The Lieutenant says you are very bad ladies because you were late, and you have thus offended the Japanese officers. This is a great crime. If you were soldiers he would put you in the guardhouse for five days, without food, or beat you, or shoot you.

“But you are ladies — and the guardhouse is not big enough for you all. Also Nekata is very kind, like all Japanese, and very kind to ladies and children, like all Japanese. So he will forgive you this time, and you may now pick up your luggage and proceed to the new camp.”

So then like good ladies we proceeded down the road to our new camp, swinging three and four suitcases on long poles between every two women, and dragging our children behind us, while the Japanese, like very kind Japanese, permitted us to do so.

2

AT the new camp I found that my “ flat ” was a good one, located by a doorway, which meant opportunity for air and expansion: here in my five feet of space I found our beds already delivered by Harry. The locating of a claim in a new camp was done by alphabetical arrangement, gambling, or fighting. As I was late in arriving I should have been out of luck had not Mrs. Cho, the wife of the Sandakan Chinese Consul, already staked my claim for me, by her side.

Shih Ping Cho was attractive, charming, intelligent, witty, courageous in spirit and body, and a friend beyond compare. Knowing and liking her before imprisonment, I grew to respect and admire her more and more throughout our captivity. Through years of discomfort Shih Ping with her two children lived side by side with George and me, breathing the same hot air, thinking the same tired thoughts, apprehensive of the same dangers, sacrificing the same decencies in the struggle to live, and laughing at the same sardonic jokes,

George continued ill all afternoon with a high temperature and vomiting. I washed our flat and unpacked the belongings, and stole some nails out of the beams for shelves. There was little to eat all day, as the new kitchen fires wouldn’t burn; no wonder, as the firewood consisted of the branches of green rubber trees we had cut down that day.

I was awake all night with George, but towards morning his fever broke and he slept. I got up at six o’clock, as I liked to arise early and dress quietly before the pandemonium of the children broke loose, to be ready for my morning job. It was pitchblack outside the barrack and in. The stars scarce showed, the dawn still hung far in the distance, and the only other people awake in camp were the Sisters, who got up early to say their prayers.

I sat on my doorstep in slacks, for I was chilly with the aftermath of fever, and brushed my hair, and thought. As I sat grinding the teeth of depression I became conscious that somebody was watching me: glancing over my shoulder I saw the dim outline of a Japanese soldier in the doorway on the other side of the barrack.

He shuffled across the barrack, through the doorway behind me, descended two steps, and stood very close to me, while I continued to brush my hair. He mumbled in a combination of Japanese, Malay, and English, and offered me cigarettes. I shook my head. He continued to proffer the cigarettes, pressing against me on the steps. I shook my head, but when he persisted, I morosely jerked my head backward, meaning that he could toss the cigarettes on the floor behind me, if he were foot enough to give them. He leaned his rifle against the door, fumbled with the cigarette pack, bent over me, and put them down.

The thought came to me that I should say thank you. I should get up and bow. Or I should say, “Get away, you’re too close!” Or I should move away myself. What is he? A jailer or a Sweetie Pie?

The guard hesitated, giggled, and shuffled his feet — and then bent quickly over me, ran his two hands roughly over my thighs and forced them violently up between my legs. The gesture so astounded me that I was paralyzed. I could think of nothing but “Well, it’s fortunate I have my slacks on.”

What followed then was unpleasant, a kind of unpleasantness that a woman resents more than any other, and which hurts her as much psychologically as physically. The soldier was strong and rough and crude and nasty, and he enjoyed humiliating me.

I was not strong enough to combat him, and did not have the power to escape him, but circumstances were with me. To debauch a captive thoroughly, even the jailer needs time and quiet; he should have chosen the lats or the bathhouse for his assault. The scuffling, pawing, and groveling, plus shouting on my part, aroused my neighbors and they began to stir and call out. The soldier relaxed his embraces for a moment, and I swung on him, taking advantage of his distraction and an unprotected stomach area, and almost knocked him down. He stumbled backwards down the stairs, and there he hesitated over what to do; whether to kiss, or to kill, or to pull up his pants and go.

I was on my feet and shouting, “Get out! Get the hell out!” A lamp was approaching us from the Sisters’ barrack across the way, and our barrack was awakening, and I guess he’d lost the primary urge. He picked up his rifle and went sourly down the path.

I stood wearily in the doorway in the darkness. The stars were still dim, the dawn not yet come, the Sisters still praying. I had not even seen my assailant’s face.

My neighbors slowly aroused themselves and asked, “What’s up?” I told them that a guard had been unpleasant to me and they accepted my reply without discussion. We had learned in camp to ask no questions; each person’s trouble was her own affair, she must bear it as best she could.

I did not wish to talk, there was nothing to say. We were captives, we were helpless, our life was unbearable, and we had to bear it. A captive has no rights: I knew that one. I felt now that there was no further way for me to demonstrate it. But I was wrong

3

I GOT my morning mug of tea, and even took some sugar in it. I needed something to stimulate me, and sugar, when one is unaccustomed to it, will do almost as much as whiskey.

As I drank tea and thought about the happening of the morning, I became apprehensive. Yesterday we had been moved to the new camp; last night the guards had sat on women’s beds, laughing and talking until late; today I had been attacked. Would the new camp, because of its isolation from the Japanese officers’ supervision, repeat the same conditions of unwelcome intimacy under which we had suffered in our first prison camp on Berhala Island? I felt that at this stage of fatigue and strain it would be unbearable to put up again with the intimate antics and familiarities of guards. The thought made me desperate.

Since we had been moved to Kuching, Sarawak, we were close to the Japanese headquarters and under constant supervision. Regulations were numerous, but the life was one of reason and consistency compared to Berhala. Within the boundary of our camp we had comparative security, and persecution was official rather than personal. The contrast between our treatment in the two camps convinced me that it was not the intention of the Japanese Command that the women prisoners as a sex should be subjected to indignities by guards.

While still drinking my tea, and worrying about the future in our new camp, I heard a commotion nearby; the order “Kutski! ” was shouted, and the people about me struggled to their feet. The toy-soldier figure of Colonel Suga, immaculate, fresh-shaven, clean-shirted, appeared down our aisle between children and pots. He was alone, had come apparently to inspect the new camp quarters, and as usual had come to the children’s barrack first. It was easy, I thought to myself, to smile benignly upon us, with a stomach well filled, and a body well soaped, and the odor of oriental perfume seeping out of every pore.

I bowed as he came to my place, and on the impulse of anger and worry I said, “Colonel Suga, I wish to complain.”

He stopped in surprise and said politely, “Yes, Mrs. Keith?”

I told him then that a soldier had behaved indecently to me. I described the incident in unequivocal terms and ended by saying, “Although I am a prisoner, I believe I have the right to live decently, even in prison. I believe that you intend us to do so. For this reason I report this occurrence to you, and as your prisoner I ask you for protection. This barrack is the only place we women have to live. I request you to forbid the guards to enter our quarters.”

His reaction was unmistakable: he was shocked. He looked at me in blank amazement and said, “Perhaps I do not understand you. Please repeat.”

I repeated my words, while he listened carefully and then answered, “If another person had told me this, I would not believe it. But I know you, and I believe that you are an honest woman. Come to my office at ten o’clock and I will talk with you. I am sorry that this has happened.”

I had first met Colonel Suga in the Berhala Island camp in 1942, when he had come from Kuching to make an inspection. He had treated me with courtesy, one of the few Japanese officers who ever did. He told me that he had read Land Below the Wind in the Japanese translation, and liked it.

He said that he was a graduate of University of Washington in the U.S.A., and asked me why Americans were prejudiced against the Japanese, I told him it was because cheap Japanese labor threatened ours, and that it was an economic prejudice. He replied that this was only a small part of it; he said, “They exclude us because of labor, but they hate us because we are Japanese. You know that this is so.”

I did know it. I could only answer that I myself had no racial prejudice: that before the war I had believed that I had real friends among the Japanese; that they had rejected me when the war began. I said that in wartime we were all trained by national propaganda to hate the enemy, as otherwise we were unwilling to kill and be killed. He and I wore now being trained thus to hate each other, but perhaps after the war we might meet as human beings again.

When we were moved to Kuching we had further conversations, and I believe that each of us became convinced of the desire in the other for sincerity; but each of us knew also that he was dealing with the enemy and must be wary. Still, we wished that it might have been otherwise. It was our effort to establish mutual respect which had made him say, “I believe you are an honest woman.”

I went up the hill to his office at ten o’clock and repeated my story, telling him that I feared a repetition of Berhala Island conditions, from which so far we had been free in Kuching, He requested me to describe these conditions. I did so, and ended by saying, “The Japanese accuse European women of immodesty, but such conditions do not allow us to live with modesty, decency, or honor.”

He then surprised me by saying, “My soldiers have orders never to enter the women’s barracks, unless there is a disturbance inside. I am shocked! Japanese soldiers are honorable. If I did not know you myself, and believe you to be an honest woman, I would not believe what you tell me.”

I answered, “I am not a girl, I am not flirtatious, I have done nothing to attract this soldier — in fact he could not see me in the dark. If he could have, I am sure he would not have chosen me. He came to me because he wanted a woman, and I was helpless and a prisoner. I know that Japanese men are not attracted by Western women — but they enjoy humiliating us.”

He looked at me without speaking, for some minutes, pressing his oval fingertips delicately against each other; then he said again, “I believe you, Mrs. Keith. I am very sorry that this has happened. I apologize to you on behalf of a Japanese soldier.”

He asked me then to identify my assailant, but I said that I could not do so because of the darkness. He called for Lieutenant Nekata and asked me to repeat my story to him. Nekata listened, did not believe me, became obviously furious. He said that if the soldier had embraced me as I described I must know who it was. How did I know that it was a Japanese soldier? It might have been a Chinese loiterer from outside, or another prisoner.

I replied that in all Kuching only a Japanese soldier had a rifle, boots, and a uniform, and all these my assailant had.

I knew that Nekata was always jealous of Suga’s power, and jealous of his own position in the Kuching camps. The two never liked the same people. In appealing to Suga I had made the mistake of passing over Nekata. But had I appealed to Nekata first he would not have allowed the appeal. Because Suga liked me, Nekata disliked me and disbelieved me. In telling Nekata of the affair it became not only an unpleasant episode — but a nasty, dirty, grubby piece of lechery on my part.

The interview ended with Suga repeating his apology to me for the incident, and I could feel Nekata squirm.

4

THE next morning at ten, Nekata sent for me to come to his office, some distance from Colonel Suga’s. At my request, Dorie Adams, our camp master, accompanied me, and Wilfred was present.

Nekata first told me to repeat my story, which Wilfred wrote down. He then said, “ You are lying.”

“I am telling the truth.”

“I say that you are lying! I say that you accuse this Japanese soldier of attacking you, in order to revenge yourself upon the Japanese for the humiliation which I inflicted upon you three days ago.”

I looked at him with surprise, and asked, “What humiliation did you inflict on me?”

“I punished you for being late, on the day that you moved to the new camp. I made you stand in the square in the sun, where your husband and others could see. You were angry with me that day, I could see that. Now you tell me a lie about a Japanese soldier in order to revenge yourself on the Japanese!”

I answered him, “You punished me because I was late; that was your duty as a soldier. But my duty was to my child, who was ill, and whose illness made me late. Therefore your punishment did not humiliate me: it was just, it gave me no cause to ‘revenge’ myself on you.”

Nekata listened, unconvinced. He ordered Wilfred to type out a copy of my statement and have me sign it, saying, “If this story proves to be false, it is serious. It is a death offense to conspire against a Nipponese soldier.” We then went through it all again, he demanding that I identify my assailant, and saying that I was lying, and I reiterating that I was telling the truth. He demanded that I produce witnesses to my story, and I assured him that the women in the barrack near me heard my shouts and struggle, and I gave him their names as witnesses. He dismissed me and I returned to camp.

That evening, Pokerface, the Sergeant Major, brought in the soldiers of the guard, one after the other, demanding that I should identify someone as my assailant. There were approximately twenty who had been on duty among the camps, and it might have been any one of them. Time and again I repeated my statement that it was impossible for me to identify the soldier because of the dark. In fact, even in the daylight and after several years of association, most Nipponese soldiers still looked a good deal alike to me.

Meanwhile, I learned from an Indonesian prisoner that Colonel Suga had departed suddenly from Kuching that evening, to be absent for an unknown period: my last hope was gone.

The next day at ten o’clock, Wilfred comes for me again and orders me to the office, telling me to come alone, without the camp master. At the office I find Sergeant Major Pokerface, a guard, and Nekata. Wilfred is dismissed, and I am seated in a chair in front of Nekata’s desk, and a typewritten document is placed before me, which I am ordered to sign. I read this through and find that it purports to be a statement made by me in which I admit that I have falsely accused a Japanese soldier of attacking me, in order to revenge myself upon Lieutenant Nekata and the Japanese, for the humiliation which recent punishment by them has caused me. I “confess” to having lied about the whole matter, and say that I am sorry.

Nekata orders me to sign this. I reply that it is impossible for me to sign it because it is not true, reminding him that I have given him the names of several women who can witness to the truth of what I say. Nekata says never mind about that.

Then he turns to the Sergeant Major and speaks rapidly in Japanese, and then he, Nekata, leaves the room. I think to myself, “Can it be over this easily? ”

The Sergeant Major looks at me with the coldest eyes that I have ever seen, and his tight lips fold over like a creased brown paper. I feel there hatred, contempt, dislike; behind that cold face I see subconscious memory of the years when we and our race have shown contempt for him and his race, when our power and strength have humiliated him. I see years of resentment resolving themselves now in his complete power over me. If he hates me as much as he seems to do, I admire his self-control in not murdering me.

He speaks to the guard in Japanese and walks to the furthest doorway in the room, and turns his back on me. The guard comes close to me as I sit before Nekata’s desk, and I look up at him in surprise. He takes hold of my left arm and twists it backwards so violently that I cry out with pain, He pulls it back further, and twists it time and again, letting it relax and then jerking it again, and the pain becomes sickening.

I call out to the Sergeant Major, I cry out again and again; but he remains standing at the door with his back to me. Subconsciously I know that he will not help, that this is going to happen to me. that I can do nothing — but I cannot stop calling to someone for help. The guard proceeds with his treatment.

Bearing pain before people who hate you is not like bearing it before those who admire you and expect you to be brave; there is no stimulus here, no standard for you to live up to. When the enemy hates you and hurts you and you cry out, it is what he wishes you to do, and he likes it; and if you don’t he just hurts you more. Nothing is of any avail then; you become too weak to be shamed by your weakness, or to attempt to be bold. It takes great courage or much phlegm to stand torture, and I have neither. I can behave like a heroine for a moment, but I can’t just sit and take it.

The guard continues his work on me, and I think that I must be making too much noise, for the Sergeant Major says something suddenly in Japanese and the guard lets go of my arm. When he releases me I am so faint that I slide forward out of the chair onto my knees. He shouts at me in English to get up, and as I try to do so he pushes me to my knees again, then kicks my knees, and I fall flat on the floor, and lie there.

Now another surprise comes, although I have seen this happen often enough to soldiers. The guard kicks me heavily with his boot in the left side in the ribs a number of times, and then in my shoulder several times, and very hard. I cover my breasts with my hands to protect them, and roll onto my stomach. He kicks me then again and again, muttering to himself while I cower under him. Then he stops kicking, and just stands and mutters. I cannot tell if the scene is just beginning, or ending. I am too frightened to move.

Then the guard walks away from me and nothing else happens. I turn over and look cautiously up. The Sergeant Major has disappeared, and the guard is looking out of the window as if none of this were any concern of his.

I lie still for a few minutes, there is an acute pain in my ribs, my left arm and shoulder ache badly, and I am sore all over, but worse than the pain is the shock. Then, as nothing else happens, I pick myself slowly up from the floor and sit in the chair again. I try to straighten my clothing and hair, but am trembling too much to do so. The guard pays no attention. The thought in my mind is, Just a minute, wait a minute, before you do anything more!

The Sergeant Major comes into the room again, and he looks at me. If he wants revenge for old humiliations, he has it now. But he shows nothing in his face, and says something to the guard which might equally well be “That’s enough!” or “Give her the works!”

Then Nekata comes back and sits down, pretending to be busy, and not looking at me. The thought goes through my mind that I should protest to him at the guard’s beating, followed by the thought that I have done too much protesting. Well, perhaps in time I shall learn about these people, but not soon enough!

Nekata leans over and pushes his version of the “confession” towards me on the desk, and for the first time looks at me, and says, “It is a very serious matter to accuse a Japanese soldier. It is better for you to confess the truth.”

My instinctive reaction is to agree to anything in order to escape. But I have thought this matter out beforehand, and, distraught though my body is, my mind still tells me, How can it help you to say that you have lied? Be careful. Keep your wits. The truth may still save.

I reply to Nekata, “I cannot sign this. It is not true. I have told you the truth.” But my voice trembles, and I know that I do not present a convincing picture. Nekata busies himself again at his desk. I have the feeling that the situation has got the best of all of us. I imagine Nekata thinking to himself, “Damn the woman, why couldn’t she let herself get raped and keep still about it!”

But the feeling that Nekata also is at a loss what to do gives me courage. I reach out and push the confession away from me, and say steadily this time, “I have told you the truth. I am a decent and self-respecting woman, and it is very bad that I should be insulted by your soldier. You are a Japanese officer and a gentleman, and you know yourself that this action is very bad. I tell you this story in order to ask for your protection.”

Nekata shows a definite reaction to this, breaking into a rash of embarrassment at my appeal to his chivalry as an officer and a gentleman. He speaks to the Sergeant Major, then turns back to me and says, “You may return to your camp. You are not to speak of this to anyone, do you understand? That is my command. To disobey is very bad. Do not speak to anyone.”

I pull myself together and leave the room with more relief than I have ever left any place in my life. Oh God, just let me get back safely again to the boredom, drudgery, and dirt which I have hated, and I won’t complain. Miserable though prison life is, I know that I don’t yet want to die.

The air braces me, but I still feel so ill that if anyone tries to help or sympathize, I know I shall collapse.

5

WHEN I got back to camp, I had a bath and put on some of the make-up which I had saved for the special occasions of meeting my husband. Today was a special occasion of another sort.

There was little temptation to tell my story in camp; probably half of the people there had been suppressing the desire to kick me themselves. I could not risk going to our camp doctor for medical aid in my present condition, for she would have asked questions, and I dared not confide in her. Nekata meant business when he said Keep Quiet.

I was particularly anxious that the truth should not reach Harry. Rumors could not be avoided, but we no longer believed rumors. He need not know the truth if I refused to give factual evidence of it. He could be of no help to me now, and in anger at my trouble he might endanger himself.

I went to Violet, however, as she was George’s godmother. I told her that I was being questioned in the office, and that I did not think I would get out of camp alive, and I asked her to take care of George if anything happened to me. I told her also where my diaries were hidden, and asked her to try to save them. I gave her no details of my trouble, not wishing to involve her more than was necessary.

At last, night came and George and I went to bed, and I thanked God for the dark. Nothing in this war, I thought, could be so hideous as having to do everything before people — having to eat, sleep, bathe, dress, function physically and emotionally in public; having one’s private sentiments washed in the public bathhouse, and hung up to dry on latrine walls. If I ever get out of this camp, I thought, dear God, just give me privacy — take everybody away, and let me die alone. I wept then in the dark, and it was the sweetest salt that I had ever tasted.

George was very good to me that night. For his sake I usually didn’t cry; I was his world, and the world collapsed if I did. But he knew that tonight was different; he was only three and a half, but he had maturity in matters of suffering. So George said to me, as we lay together on our beds, that he was going to do my camp work for me tomorrow, if I was ill. I thanked him. He said then that he would stroke my head until I went to sleep, for we both loved being stroked. So he sat by me cross-legged, stroking gently with one soft hand, sucking the other thumb, until his eyes were glassy with slumber, and he fell over asleep on my breast. He lay there then with his fair, hard head on my stomach, his lips just open, snoring and sucking.

But I could not sleep. The pain in my ribs was acute, my left shoulder was swollen and aching, I could scarcely move my arm, and I was bruised and sore in many places. I felt my breasts anxiously, for like most women I feared bruises there. In addition to physical discomforts, I was sick with the dread of what might happen tomorrow.

I had been incredibly stupid not to foresee the course of these events. There was an almost routine procedure in such cases. A prisoner was accidentally brought into Japanese notice, either because the Japanese accused him of something, or he asked for something, or he was an unwilling witness to something. He was taken to the office and questioned, and if they could not force a confession, he was freed. Shortly after, he was taken, and requestioned, and freed. Shortly after that he was removed from Kuching, for further questioning. In time his removal was followed by the report that he had died of dysentery or malaria, these being the diseases equivalent to knowing too much.

I had become a thorn in Nipponese flesh. They knew that I was a writer; they constantly searched my belongings for notes; they believed that if I got out of camp I was going to write about what had happened there. The threat was not strong enough to alter conditions, but it was strong enough to be a constant annoyance to them. My presence reminded them that the things they were doing would not look well in print, and they did like to be thought nice people! And now I had committed the crime of becoming a victim myself of assault and brutality.

I believed that Colonel Suga had left Kuching in order to avoid an unpleasant situation; to interfere between Nekata and myself, Suga would have had to run the risk of being labeled pro-British. And why should he risk himself to save me?

6

MORNING comes. At ten o’clock Wilfred again orders me to Nekata’s office, alone. I send George to Violet and tell myself that this is the finish. I put on my neatest dress and make-up, to meet the end.

At the office there are Nekata, the Sergeant Major, and a guard. Nekata’s typed “confession” is again offered to me to sign, and I refuse. My own statement is then read through to me, and I affirm that it is the truth.

Then we proceed as we did the day before; Nekata speaks to the Sergeant Major and the guard in Japanese, and Nekata leaves the room. The Sergeant Major speaks to the guard, and the Sergeant Major leaves the room. The guard lounges over to the window and leans against it. I sit and wait: nothing to come can be more frightening than this sitting and waiting for something to come. Dressed for the slaughter, hair carefully combed and braided, lipstick on colorless lips, rouge on malaria-yellowed cheeks, in neatest dress, good sharkskin, once very smart — this is how the Welldressed Internee will dress to be beaten up, I tell myself.

Through the window I see Nekata walking slowly up the hill towards the Japanese officers’ quarters. He disappears. Nothing happens. After ten minutes he comes into sight again, descends the hill road, and re-enters the office. He has a newspaperwrapped bundle, which he places on the desk.

My mind jumps instantly to a conclusion: that bundle contains some of the articles which I have traded to the Japanese guards in exchange for contraband food — articles which, now that the heat is on, have been identified and brought in to make more trouble for me. Oh, for a clean conscience! That white wool sweater that somebody knit for Harry—they can’t prove that’s mine, can they? Still, I wish they didn’t have it. And Harry’s wool socks, and his gray flannel trousers with Wm. Powell’s Hong Kong label in them! And my gold thimble with “Agnes Newton on her sixteenth birthday from Mom and Dad”! Oh, what a fool I’ve been!

Nekata dismisses the guard, and we are alone. He motions towards the newspaper-wrapped package and says to me, “You do not look well. You are very thin. Here are six eggs for you. This affair is finished. But remember, I order you not to speak of this. Also remember, if your statement is not true, that it is a death offense. You may return to your camp now.”

With difficulty I arise, bow and say “Thank you,” pick up the eggs, and leave.

What an incredible people! I think. An omelet for my honor! Six eggs for broken ribs! Well, an egg is still an egg! This time I intend to eat some myself. Three for George, and three for me. I really do need something.

I walk down the road towards home in a state of semi-hysteria; the eggs have brought the situation down to earth. Surely Nekata can’t swing it back to the high tragedy level after this!

Some three days after Nekata had released me, I noticed a guard in camp with a working party of Roman Catholic priests: I felt him almost before I saw him, because of the hatred behind his glare. He hung around outside the barrack all morning, and when I had to go outside to the latrine he followed me, and entered the latrine after me.

He shook his fist and spat at me, and shouted in bad Malay and English, “You are a wicked woman! You tell Colonel Suga bad things about me! I come to you as your friend, I give you cigarettes, I try to make friend of you, but you tell Colonel Suga I am bad. You very bad woman. You tell! There is much trouble now, all our soldiers beaten. The soldiers hate you. We make trouble for you now. Pah!” and he spat again.

I looked at him in astonishment, at his foolishness in revealing himself as my assailant. But my astonishment lasted only a moment. Then I saw that he was right and always had been — he was safe whatever happened. He was the man with the gun. That I reported him at all had been my error in conception of conditions, not his.

His venom made me shiver. I walked away from him, while he was still shouting.

Two weeks later the pain in my ribs was no better My shoulder was improving, and the bruises had disappeared, but my arm was weak and almost useless. And I still had camp work to do. I went to our camp doctor and asked her to bandage my ribs with elastoplast, saying that I had broken them some years before and they were paining me again, perhaps as a result of the heavy work we were doing.

She replied that she had only a small amount of elastoplast and could not use it all on one patient. I suggested that she ask Dr. Yamamoto, the Japanese surgeon in charge, for more, but she said it would be useless to ask him. However, she bandaged me from armpit to waist with a bandage made from spliced strips of old silk underwear. I returned to my work, and after a few minutes of movement, the silk bandage slid down to my waist.

I went and bargained with a fellow prisoner for a roll of new muslin bandage. I took this to the doctor, and she bandaged me again, under the armpits, and over the shoulder and down to the waist. This gave me support, but the inelasticity allowed no leeway for breathing. By midnight the tension was unbearable, and I removed the bandage.

I arose the next morning, feeling desperate. Taking French leave of camp, I walked out of the gate and up the road to Dr. Yamamoto’s office. I expected to be caught by the camp sentry or the road sentry. But neither was in sight.

Dr. Yamamoto, as the Japanese medical officer responsible for the welfare of the Kuching Prison Camps, commanded the drug supplies. I disliked going to him, as the Japanese accused us of lack of fortitude, inability to bear suffering, and physical cowardice. Pride made me at first dislike to ask for anything, and gave them further excuse for their contempt. However, I got over this as my needs increased.

We were forbidden both by our community rules and by Japanese POW rules to go to Dr. Yamamoto. We had orders to deal only with our individual camp doctor, who was appointed by the Japanese, and had authority to approach Dr. Yamamoto at specified times.

The Japanese rule was made in order to save Yamamoto from annoyance. The camp community rule was based on the theory that the camp doctor would make requests for the good of the community as a whole, whereas the individual would think of herself only, and she alone would benefit. As the supply of drugs and Dr. Yamamoto’s patience were equally limited, the theory was wise. But throughout camp life, the way to get a thing was to disregard all rules, both British and Japanese, and go after it. This was antipathetic to the law of community living, but sympathetic to the law of survival.

Dr. Yamamoto was a man of extremes, either delightful or devilish. He had a violent, uncontrolled temper, which sent him literally insane when he was annoyed, and a sense of humor from whose scope he excepted himself. He was the one officer in the Kuching group that we did not dare to ridicule. When he was not hurling swords and kicking people, he was gentle in his ways and manner, entertaining and kind.

A private feud existed between our doctor and Yamamoto. She thought him a stupid twirp, charlatan, medical fake, brute. But stupid he was not; he knew that she thought him all this, and the knowledge resulted in constant strife — our doctor got the last word, but Yamamoto took the last kick.

This morning, fortunately, I found Yamamoto in a good humor. We bowed to each other, and he told me to sit down, an unusual courtesy from a Japanese officer. He commented that I was extremely thin and did not look well, and asked me if I still had malaria.

I said yes, but that it was not about malaria I had come; I believed I had some broken ribs. I described my pains and symptoms, and asked him for a roll of elastoplast to use for bandaging purposes.

He asked how I had received the injury, and I told him it was an old one from some years before. He sucked in his breath at that and said, “I am surprised!” Then he said, “I hear that you have some trouble with a Japanese soldier?”

I made no reply, and we looked at each other silently. Then he said, “We Japanese either kill or get killed, in war. I think it is better so. I think it is not pleasant to be a prisoner.”

I said, “Well, it’s not too late to kill us all still!”

“Ha! I think not. Very awkward now.” We both laughed, and I knew I was going to get the elastoplast. He left the office and returned with a new tin of Red Cross plaster. He handed this to me, saying, with a laugh, “Don’t tell the doctor!”

He asked me if I needed anything else. I said that I would like a narcotic, as the pain kept me awake at night; also I would like a piece of soap for George’s bath. He gave me some small white tablets out of a Parke Davis bottle, one of the barbiturics, I think, then reached into his desk drawer and with his penknife, cut in half a large piece of soap, then reached into another drawer and produced four ripe bananas, and said, “For George.”

I said, “Thank you very much. You are always very kind to us.”

He left the room for a moment and returned with two eggs. “For you, not George.”

I thanked him again and assured him he was very kind. He warned me again not to tell the doctor that he had given me anything, told me to take care of myself, handed me a packet of Saigon cigarettes, and motioned me to depart.

Just as I was leaving I remembered soda bicarbonate; this I always needed for George, who suffered with a bladder irritation from the starch diet. I said, “I do not like to ask you for anything more, Dr. Yamamoto, but you are so very kind, that I do. Could you give me soda bicarbonate for George?”

He looked a bit annoyed, tutt-tutt-ed, then laughed, and said, “Haah, Keif, I am very kind! Haah! O.K., Keif! I give you soda bicarb.” And he did.

I bowed good-bye and walked home, reflecting that the quality of brutality was not isolated in the Japanese, nor was the quality of mercy unknown to them.

The elastic support brought relief, and with the help of the pain killer, I had a real night’s sleep. The next day I swallowed my pride and asked our doctor to take me off camp work temporarily. She put me on sick list for two weeks.

The next day a bottle of Red Cross Multiple Vitamin Tablets arrived for me from Dr. Yamamoto, with the sole instructions, “Do Not Tell the Doctor!” These I put away for the greater emergency, the expectation of which always overshadowed prison fife.