The devils circle, p.10
The Devil's Circle, page 10
There was only one thing that everyone — European, Malay, Chinese and Indian — could agree on: that the Japanese were the main villains of the piece and should be punished to the limit of the law and beyond. I found myself right in the line of fire because of Nakamura. He was one of the first of the war criminals to be brought to book. The British and Australians were assiduously putting together the evidence to try those responsible for the atrocities against Allied POWs and civilians. They were also going after the perpetrators of the Sook Ching massacres and the Double Tenth atrocities. That took a lot more time as there were many more victims and defendants. Nakamura’s case was neat and straightforward. Four dead victims, two witnesses, one survivor of the Kempeitai unit responsible; a nice open-and-shut case as the curtain-raiser for the big show later on.
ACTUALLY, Nakamura was going to be part of a double-bill. The Police Courts in South Bridge Road had been opened for the tribunals hearing criminal and other cases, as the Supreme Court remained closed. Nakamura was to be tried there. Since the place was already set up with the necessary security, the authorities must have thought that it would be more efficient to have the preliminary hearing for Habibullah’s court-martial there too. D’Almeida wasn’t ready for a full trial yet. George had been tasked with rounding up witnesses for the defence, a job that taxed his contacts to the maximum. We were trying to locate members of his unit, the Bhurtpores. This was no easy task, as most of the Jifs had been shipped to Burma as the INA’s contribution to the liberation of the motherland. There a large number of them died of disease or wounds. The lucky few who survived the fighting and the rigours of the Burmese jungle surrendered to the British. They were sent back to India to await their fate. Finding any of Habibullah’s men still in Malaya would have been like striking the lottery. The court-martial would just take Habibullah’s plea and decide on a date for the substantive hearing. Nakamura, on the other hand, was slated to go on as scheduled. I hadn’t the excuse that we were waiting to locate our witnesses; there were none for the defence.
The day before the hearing I received an unexpected parcel from Hojo. It came by messenger and was brought to me by George. “Something from your friend Hojo, all nicely gift-wrapped,” he said, handing me the brown-paper package tied up with a ribbon. The Japanese have a fine sense of aesthetics. Even with plain paper scrounged from his office and a piece of worn ribbon, Hojo had managed to make the parcel look elegant.
I opened the note that came with the present. “Chiang-san,” it read, “you asked me to explain how my countrymen think. I enclose three documents that may assist you. The first is the Imperial Rescript to the Military Forces issued by the Emperor Meiji in 1902. The second are instructions to Military Forces. The third is an extract from the Army Training Regulations. I have made a humble attempt to translate the relevant passages for you.
I also send you a small token as a mark of my esteem. I know you to be an upright man, and I commend you for undertaking the task of defending my countryman. I beg your pardon for the humbleness of the gift. The officer who owned it did not use it at all and he has no need of it now. It is my earnest hope that you will find some use for it.”
I unwrapped the parcel carefully. Given the care with which it had been wrapped, I felt that it was the least I could do. The first fold revealed the three documents that Hojo referred to. Underneath was a bundle wrapped in tissue paper. “What is it?” asked George curiously.
“It’s a yukata,” I said, holding up the garment, “a summer kimono.” It was of light cotton, with a simple pattern of stripes. It was clearly not the most expensive or well-made of its kind, but I was touched by the gesture nonetheless. He could have traded it for food or even sold it instead.
“Very nice,” remarked George. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Don’t know,” I replied doubtfully, “I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing such a thing. My bottom would feel exposed.”
“Correction,” responded George, “you’d be dead if anyone caught you wearing that. It’s not wise to look too Japanese nowadays.”
Maniam the office boy interrupted us. “Letter for you, Sir.”
“Another one?” I asked. “Who from?”
“Chinese man give it to Singh the jaga for you,” he replied.
This missive wasn’t as carefully prepared as Hojo’s. There was no envelope, just a folded square of paper. I unfolded it. It was written in Chinese, in red ink. I called Eng Tong to come in and translate for me.
“It say that you are a Japanese running-dog and will die,” he read laconically, as if announcing the day’s weather.
“Oh, wonderful,” I responded, “just what I need to make my day. Nakamura won’t talk even though it’s his neck practically in the noose. If by some miracle he gets off, I’m in line to get the chop.”
“You’re not thinking of chucking it in, are you?” asked George.
I was sorely tempted, but I answered, “No, I suppose I can’t back out now. And certainly not in the face of threats.”
“Why don’t you give the yuki-thingy to Nakamura, since you don’t want it?” suggested George. “He might be touched enough by the gesture to open up. We need his cooperation.”
“We do?” I asked, surprised. “Since when?”
“Since we have to defend Habibullah. I’ve drawn a blank locating old Bhurtpores. You can’t just wander round the island calling for them like trying to find stray goats. But if there were any deserters picked up in Malaya, the Kempeitai would have gotten hold of them. I’m hoping that Nakamura might give us a lead.”
NAKAMURA had been transferred from his holding cell in Pearl’s Hill Police Station to the lock-up under the Police Courts in anticipation of his trial. The move was done surreptitiously under the cover of darkness, to avoid any unpleasantness with the crowds who might have been inclined to hang him first and have the hearing later. The Courts building was surrounded with barbed wire. Though the trial was to be held in public, access was restricted to ensure security. For this I was mightily thankful. It was clear to me that some people couldn’t distinguish between the defendant and the defendant’s counsel.
Habibullah too was in the lock-up. He had been held in Selarang Barracks, a long way from town. The British were not happy to have to admit that so many of their loyal Indian sepoys had gone over to the other side. Keeping him with petty criminals was out of the question. So was putting him into a POW camp, since that would have meant recognising his status as a POW and not a renegade. Selarang was about as far as they could get and still have him on the island. He would be out of sight and out of mind there. But it was too far to transport him just for a morning’s hearing, so as a temporary expedient he was lodged in the cell next to Nakamura. This suited us fine, as d’Almeida wanted me along to interview Habibullah. It was my job to take notes and generally jog his memory about details, since I had been in the vicinity when Lieutenant-Colonel Holmes was killed. If nothing else, I could poke holes in any false story.
D’ALMEIDA, Eng Tong and I were dropped off in front of the Courts by Ahmad. There was a little trouble with the guard commander, who eyed us suspiciously. He was a tawny-haired freckle-faced young corporal from a county regiment, wearing a jungle-green uniform that was still unfaded. From his pallor I surmised that he hadn’t been in the tropics for long. He wasn’t used to English-speaking Asiatics claiming to be lawyers. He examined our papers minutely. Finally deciding that to give use the benefit of the doubt, he signaled to his men to let us through.
Once in the Courts, however, it was different. They knew d’Almeida there. Every few steps he was stopped by a clerk or peon, who shook his hand warmly and said how nice it was to see him back there again after so many years. Down in the cells, the warder greeted him like an old friend — which he was. D’Almeida had made it a point to keep in touch with his contacts during the war years. Many had benefitted from his generosity, since the big garden in his bungalow produced more than enough food for his simple needs. The warder Amin was one of them.
Nakamura didn’t seem particularly overjoyed to see us. He stared at us phlegmatically when we were let into his cell. Perhaps the presence of d’Almeida had a sobering effect on Eng Tong. He was more subdued than usual in announcing us. At least it didn’t sound as though we had come to beat the truth out of Nakamura. “Tell him that this is for him,” I instructed Eng Tong, handing Hojo’s package to him.
Nakamura’s eyes widened in surprise. He hadn’t expected kindness. It was alien to his mind that prisoners were to be treated with any consideration. He opened the paper gingerly, as though afraid of what it might contain. Drawing out the yukata, he held it up uncertainly.
“Go on,” I urged with gestures, “put it on.”
He took off his shirt, which was stained and frankly stank. Evidently, he hadn’t washed for a long, long time. Slowly and hesitantly he put on the yukata. With his right hand clutching one edge as if paralysed, he tremblingly folded the other edge over with his left hand. He fumbled with the knot of his sash, as though his fingers were crippled. He was a pitiable specimen of humanity, but far from provoking sympathy in me I only felt revulsion. Again, the thought of giving up the case and leaving him to his fate flashed across my mind. D’Almeida watched this performance attentively with narrowed eyes. Abruptly, he went to the door of the cell and called for the warder. “May I have a cup of tea, Enchik Amin?” He asked politely. Amin looked surprised, but being used to d’Almeida and grateful for small favours he went off to get the requested tea.
Meanwhile, Eng Tong had commenced questioning Nakamura as d’Almeida had instructed. Did he know anything of deserters from the INA? Were such deserters held by the Kempeitai? If not, who would have had responsibility for them? Nakamura proved no more forthcoming in this than in the matter of his own defence. He pleaded ignorance of anything to do with the INA or its deserters. He did not know which army unit was in charge of picking up the strays. I seethed with frustration. He could not justify our help to him by being even the least bit helpful to us.
Amin returned with d’Almeida’s tea in an enamel mug. D’Almeida handed it to Nakamura with both hands. “Drink,” he said in Japanese.
Nakamura accepted the proffered mug, bowing. He cupped his hands gingerly around the hot container. D’Almeida indicated that he should drink up. He did as he was instructed. “Ask if he has anything more to tell us,” instructed d’Almeida. “What does he say to the charges against him?”
Eng Tong translated. Again there was that shaking of the head that I had become so used to. “He say nothing to the charge,” reported Eng Tong. D’Almeida nodded and indicated that we should leave. The warder let us out. D’Almeida told me to proceed to Habibullah’s cell first while he had a quiet word with Amin. Eng Tong was dismissed. To my surprise, as I turned towards Habibullah’s cell, he plucked at my sleeve.
“I want to talk to you,” he said. “I come to the house tonight, can or not?”
“Talk to me? Can’t we do it now? I’m awfully busy tonight. The case is coming on for hearing tomorrow morning and I’ve got to get ready.”
He shook his head emphatically. “No, cannot talk here.”
I sighed with resignation. He evidently had something on his mind that wouldn’t wait. The last thing I needed was for him to walk off the job in a huff. “All right, if you must. Seven o’clock, and don’t be late.”
THE night before a case is always the worst. I have gigantic butterflies in the stomach no matter how many times I may have done it before. A lot of it is fear of appearing foolish in public. It would have helped a lot to have had a client who might invoke the sympathy of the judges. The trouble with being the low man on the totem-pole is that you never get to choose your cases. D’Almeida had the luxury of being able to say no to a potential client. He had reached the happy position in his professional career where clients felt priviliged to have him defend them. Besides, he was independently wealthy and didn’t really need the business. Even after the depredations of the War, he still retained a comparative affluence. All this meant that he could choose to do only the cases he believed in.
I had no such choice. True, he had said that he would not force me to do the case if my conscience would not let me. But whatever my conscience might have said, I didn’t want to appear a quitter in the eyes of my boss — not after he had expressed his faith in my ability. It would have been too much like desertion in the face of the enemy.
It was hard trying to put together a defence for Nakamura. It would have been so much easier to have just have spun a fairy tale out of hot air and imagination. D’Almeida would have none of that. He insisted that we put the client’s case fairly to the judges; and it had to be the client’s story, not something some sharp lawyer had cooked up for him. Given Nakamura’s lack of cooperation, there was little I could say. Nor did the law books provide much help. I was in uncharted waters without a compass.
Engrossed as I was preparing myself for the impending doom of my client, I’d completely forgotten that Eng Tong was coming over until Gek Neo appeared at the door of my room to announce him. “That man Yeo Eng Tong from your office has come to visit you,” she said. “He is waiting downstairs.”
The interruption did not please me, but I felt that I had to humour him. It wasn’t for the sake of politeness; I needed his active assistance and I didn’t want to antagonise him. I hurriedly shut my notebook and trotted down the stairs to the sitting room. Eng Tong was standing in the verandah, looking out into the garden. I was mildly surprised to see that he had on a proper shirt and well-pressed pants, held up with a pair of braces. His hair had been slicked back and lay neatly plastered to his head instead of sticking up all over the place like an unruly thicket of bamboo. He turned when he heard me. Before I had time to ask what he wanted, he blurted out: “I want to marry your sister. You give me permission?”
15
THE tribunal trying Nakamura consisted of three officers, a lieutenant-colonel of Indian Army as President, a British major and an Australian captain from the Australian Army Legal Corps. Lieutenant-Colonel Watkins, the President, had an impressive string of letters to his name, including MA (Cantab) and KC. The prosecuting counsel was a barrister of the Middle Temple, who held the rank of major in the 17/21 Lancers and the grand appellation of Assistant Judge Advocate-General, HQ ALFSEA. I hadn’t met him before, but he seemed to be a decent enough fellow. He came over to introduce himself and shake hands like a gentleman. Beatty was his name. We exchanged a few pleasantries before the court convened, talking inconsequentially about the impending monsoon and how humid it had become. Major Beatty was assisted by a young British second-lieutenant of the North Anglian Yeomanry, who sat morosely at the counsel’s table sifting through the documents. He looked up briefly when I came over to introduce myself and smiled wanly. I didn’t catch his mumbled name.
I was alone.
Eng Tong should have been there with me, but he hadn’t shown up. I wasn’t surprised. It had been hard explaining to him that I couldn’t give permission for June to marry him. At first he thought that I was refusing outright and started to become agitated. However, I finally got through to him the fact that firstly, I wasn’t her elder brother and secondly, even if I was she wouldn’t listen to me. June, I said, had a mind of her own and had to make her own decisions about his proposal. It took him a while to grasp that. This was foreign to his world view. He thought that the landed gentry (meaning us) kept the old customs. As far as he was concerned, I was paterfamilias in default of any other male relatives. If anyone had a say about June’s marriage, it should have been me.
I suppose that I should have given him credit for trying to do things the proper way. We were a society in transition. Mak’s generation took it for granted that marriages were to be arranged. Hers certainly was. It had been a deal made between my uncle, whose wife had recently died without bearing him a son, and Mak’s father, who wanted to see his daughter married off. There was no talk of love, affection or even of liking. In those days, a girl was considered fortunate if her husband was a good provider and came from a respectable family. If he was faithful, that was a bonus. Uncle proved to be a good husband by the conventional criteria. She looked after him and he took care of her needs. When he died, Mak made sure that the customary offerings were made to his soul at the necessary times. Though there was no open display of emotion, by any reasonable definition of the word theirs was a loving relationship.
When it came to getting her step-daughters and daughters married off, Mak laboured under the grave disadvantage of not having any money. She had tried for years to find a suitable boy for Gek Neo, but without success — mostly because Gek Neo insisted, in that self-sacrificing way of firstborns, that she would not marry until all the girls were out of school. To top it all, we were poor but genteel. Gentility counted for little. It was hard to find a good Baba husband from a respectable family without a proper dowry. Then May cut the matrimonial queue and potong jalan, as we called it, by accepting Ralph’s proposal. Ralph was Eurasian, though he looked completely European. He didn’t care about the dowry. He was my friend and came to the house occasionally. There was a mutual attraction, but both of them were shy to the point of muteness. Being dumb in both senses of the word, neither would make any move. June intervened. She egged Ralph on and he finally screwed up the courage to actually ask her out. If it hadn’t been for June they would have missed one another completely, like two sheep that pass in the night.
