Camp Life Is Paradise for Freddy. Fred Lanzing

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 its designs of conquest in the entire Pacific region it had a great need of raw materials and oil, which it didn’t have at home. However, the Dutch East Indies did, and one way or the other Japan wanted to gain control of these.

      The governor-general would frequently go to Batavia, always accompanied by his staff. My father was therefore often away from home.

      Every now and then my parents rented a bungalow in the Preanger, in the mountains of West Java. We would go there during school vacations and sometimes for weekends to “catch a breath of fresh air.” The little wooden house was close to a vast tea plantation that belonged to one of my uncles. He lived there with his family, whose two sons were just about my age. Covering the hillsides all around were pale green tea gardens.

      I was always up early. Then I’d go to my uncle’s large house near the factory. At the break of day the morning wind would rustle through the stands of dry bamboo. In the pale sky a few stars were still visible. You could smell the dew on the soil that lay steaming in the first rays of the sun while gently waving spirals of charcoal smoke floated through the air. The coolies were sitting beside the shed by the light of smoldering oil lamps, and, crouching on their heels, the women pickers were waiting for the day’s instructions. In hushed almost comradely tones my uncle consulted with the mandurs, the supervisors and foremen, who then nodded that they understood, but they’d also make suggestions, to which my uncle listened attentively.

      After everyone had gone to work, my uncle showed his sons and me fresh mud tracks on the tiles of the covered landing behind the house. They were panther tracks. The big cat had been snooping around during the night. I thought it was exciting and looked forward to the envy my schoolmates would show when hearing the story.

      During the day it was hot. My cousins and I used to play all day long in a small, cold mountain river filled with boulders, rapids, and eddies. In deeper spots the water was stagnant, and there tiny skittish fish swam around that simply wouldn’t let themselves be caught. On the banks we’d catch green frogs and light blue dragonflies that jumped and flew around in vast numbers. We built little dams with stones and twigs. I can’t begin to imagine a nicer place to play for seven- and eight-year-old boys.

      Sometimes we followed the little brook upriver right to the spring, which was a damp, mossy place, surrounded by ferns amid trees with a dim filtered light passing through. Clear water came burbling from the ground; the atmosphere was mysterious and magical. According to the local people, some benevolent water spirits were living there, which seemed—and still seems—highly plausible to me.

      Other days we wandered through the tea plantations where in the mornings the pickers were working. In the hot sun they’d talk listlessly beneath their large woven bamboo hats with cloths attached to protect their neck and upper arms from the sun’s rays. They rarely paid any attention to us, unless they were chanting singsong lyrics in chorus when they would cast a sideways ironic glance in our direction. According to my uncle, these were rather lewd Sundanese folk songs. Despite our insistence he refused to translate them. I still hold that against him; how I’d love to be able to sing them today.

      One day I was allowed