ĂŰŃż´«Ă˝

Part 4 continued. The school had the mandatory “Nippon” flag at its mast in the grounds and all the teachers were Asian or Irish Christian Brothers. The Irish and French were allowed freedom provided they swore allegiance to the Eire and Vichy governments. At assembly we all bowed to the Emperor, sang the “Kimigayo” and did exercises before attending lessons. We studied “Katakana” the simple alphabet and later progressed onto “Kanji” characters. We were taught to use a brush to write or draw the characters, using jet-black ink from a block. It was fun and I began to enjoy this “Play school”. Of course propaganda was our daily diet and all our previous history was turned on its head. The villains now were the British and Americans who started the war by placing an oil and commerce embargo on Japan and also exploiting the Asians. They showed us a photo of a British park with a notice saying “No dogs and Chinese”. The “Greater Co-Prosperity Sphere” programme was promulgated all over the city with posters encouraging everyone to give it wholehearted support. Even the postage stamps portrayed tanks liberating Singapore with the “Greater Co-Prosperity Sphere” slogan. The front of the school overlooked by the statue of De La Salle was once a formal garden, which we now dug up and turned into a market garden. It was fun because we enjoyed all the digging and planting of seeds, something we never knew anything about. The produce belonged to the pupils, adding to our dwindling food supply. The only school book we had was a propaganda one about a boy called “Momo Taro San”. It had cartoon drawings and was about an old Japanese couple finding a large pumpkin afloat on the mountain stream where they were doing their washing. On opening the pumpkin they discovered Momo Taro, who they adopted as their son. Naturally he grew up strong and brave and set about sorting out the nasty demon living on an Island just like Singapore. A large bird did the reconnaissance and a monkey wearing a cap similar to the Malay “Sonko” climbed the fortress wall to let him in, to kill the demon, which looked very British. We recited the story by heart and everyone enjoyed themselves. The visit of General Tojo was indeed a memorable affair. Singapore was bedecked in flags and even the high alter in the Cathedral had one. On the big day of his ceremonial drive, thousands of people were forced to line the streets, including POWs. Early on that day we were given small “Nippon” flags and marched by our teachers to our appointed positions on the route. Hundreds of armed Jap soldiers lined the route facing the crowds. They were very excited and agitated, making sure all windows were closed and shuttered. As we were early, the Chinese workers in the shop where I was standing carried on making wooden barrels, with a lot of noise from hammering the metal rings. I could see the soldier facing me wincing at the noise and eventually he snapped. Rushing over to the Chinese worker he hit him with his rifle butt and all was quiet. Eventually Tojo drove pass in a cavalcade of cars, we cheered and it was all over. After the war I have seen this episode recorded on war films shown on TV, but alas not of me. As the year passed and we had eaten all our hoarded food like everyone else, creeping starvation became our main preoccupation. Our school gave us compulsory red palm oil by the tablespoonful daily to supplement our diet. It tasted vile but we took it, knowing it would do us some good. Because deep-sea fishing was prohibited, only sprats and the like were available. Rice and a variety of meats were rationed. There was pork, turtle meat, wild boar; iguana and I suspect cat and dog meat too, because these pets disappeared from the scene. I had to travel by bicycle a considerable distance to join huge queues for our rations in the markets. Vegetables like “Kangkong” which grows like a weed, and tapioca flour became our stable diet. Meat, sugar, milk, bread and all the food we once enjoyed was no longer available, as most of these products had been imported from Australia. Of course one could buy these tinned goods on the black market, provided you had the old British currency and were prepared to risk it. This brings to mind a very frightening experience I had. Dad asked me to buy some sugar from Mrs. A, friends of ours who lived in a large house near the Cathay cinema in Kirk Terrace. They were a Filipino family of some standing, who we got to know through our church. Their sons were server or alter boys like L and myself at the Cathedral of the Good Shepherd. Being wealthy they were able to hoard a vast amount of food, which was just as well, as there were seven children, two Amahs, Muma and Papa to feed. In their large house, which was a music school with many rooms, I noticed they had a bath filled to the brim with sugar, hence my errand. Dad gave me a British Singapore dollar note to pay for the sugar, which I hid in the sole of my shoe. We both knew the risk involved, but off I went with my “Life under my foot”. At the junction of Hill Street and Stamford road I foolishly decided to take the short cut via Stamford road instead of Queen Street and Bras Basah road. This meant passing the notorious ex-YMCA building, which was now Kempeitai Headquarters and a feared torture chamber. As I passed the building on the opposite side of the road along the canal, I noticed a Kempeitai officer with his distinguishing white armband and red characters, standing on the steps looking at me. My heart sank when I heard the dreaded “Oi”, and turning around I saw him beckon me over. I must have looked exceedingly guilty as I kept thinking of that dollar note in my shoe, which now felt like a lead weight as I rushed over to bow to him. After asking a number of mundane questions he sent me on my way to live to tell this tale. Passing this house of horrors was always scary, because I saw many an unfortunate person dragged in for interrogation and the screams emanating from the place always quickened my pace. Once I saw a naked Chinaman standing to attention at the reception desk at the entrance and I still wonder what became of him. The odd thing is that I used to see in the early days of the occupation, a British soldier tending to a motorbike and sidecar outside, and assumed he was employed there as the driver. He always looked away as I passed by. After the war was over I took the opportunity to go inside this infamous place to satisfy my curiosity and I wasn’t disappointed. I saw grim wooden cage-like compartments with blood stained walls, some so small as to prevent movement. Then there were all sorts of implements of torture and the notorious “Dipping” plank used to part drown prisoners. Apparently it never failed to get a confession. It was truly a house of horrors and I felt relieved the war was over at last. Being hungry all the time made me dream of food but it was such a disappointment when I woke up. I promised myself an omelet of a dozen eggs when the war was over, but never got round to such gluttony. At this time a tiny so called loaf of bread appeared about six inches by three inches. It was made of tapioca and palm oil, tasted vile and was so rubbery that I’m sure the secret ingredient was latex rubber. Gradually we all lost weight and Dad who was rotund and overweight complained that all his trousers didn’t fit. Actually he looked a lot fitter and moved about easily. Poor Auntie suffered with Beri Beri, and with swollen legs, walking was painful, so she had to give up the brown sugar sales round. The lack of vitamins was the cause of this painful complaint, which was very common at this time. I noticed that any scratch or wound wouldn’t heal so we began to develop ulcers on our elbows knees and heels. Scabies on our hands, which itched like mad, was another thing to add to our woes. We had no medication at home, so relied on simple remedies like salt and charcoal. The latter was also used as toothpaste applied by a finger. Pounded eggshells we ate for calcium. Dad became paranoid about our food rations, which he double locked in his wardrobe and suspected everyone of stealing. Looking back, one cannot blame him for being irrational because they were very trying times and food was getting very scarce. I remember him saying to me one day that we had only two aspirins left and that they were for a really serious illness. Later I shall relate the special occasion when they were used. He was an expert at bargaining with the street traders in China Town and was quite fluent in the local dialects, sometimes using his “Britishness” to clinch a deal. Amongst all the stench and filth of the street markets we bought vegetables, fish and rotten eggs. The tiny cracked eggs were always scrambled and the shrimps cooked in a curry were quite delicious. Strangely we never seemed to get tummy upsets. I remember seeing on one shopping trip, a Chinese boy carrying a huge wriggling rat by its tail. When he saw me show an interest, he swung it against a lamppost, whereupon it burst all over the place. I felt sick. Our kitchen was overrun by mice and I often watched them play on the cooker, which didn’t work. We cooked on tiny Chinese earthenware stoves with charcoal, which looked like flower pots. The larder stood on saucers of water to stop ants getting at the little food there was. A large earthen jar provided water for washing. The worst pest we suffered from, were the vicious bugs which took over our rattan chairs and attacked friend and foe alike. Many a Jap soldier suffered our hospitality. This happened one day when a soldier appeared at our door asking for something. Not understanding what he was on about, we offered him a drink of tea instead. The next thing he did was to bellow out of the window to the street below “Come on boys, teas up”. With that a lorry load of Japs came up for “Afternoon Tea”. They were a rough lot, spitting whilst eating our tasty army biscuits and drinking lots of tea. This was at the time when we still had food to spare, soon after the surrender. They weren’t spared the attention of our vicious friends, the bugs. Mrs. S. one of our lodgers took to drinking the local brew call “Nan Bo Ku” to drown her sorrows. After a few drinks she would cry herself to sleep. Married to a European who was interned or dead, she was obliged to wear an identity badge like the Jews with their “Star of David”. Her adopted daughter Joy was Chinese so didn’t have an ID. Later during the occupation when the tide began to change for the Japs and they posed a risk, the Jews and other badge wearers were rounded up. They came early one morning for Mrs. S, and I remember carrying her tiny suitcase down to the waiting police lorry. In tears she went to “Sime Road” concentration camp, leaving Joy with us. Dennis who also stayed with us had a Chinese friend called Jimmy Chan who was sweet on Joy and a regular visitor. They were involved with the black market and were always coming and going. Not short of money Dennis paid Dad for his keep. He still did his artwork and bodybuilding despite the food shortage. We used to hang on the two metal rings we called “Roman Rings” which he attached to a room partition for his “Pull up” exercises. Jimmy was a friendly chap but a mystery until we bumped into him one day in China Town. He took us to his apartment and then to an “Ianjo” house, a brothel for the Japanese Army using “Comfort Women”. These women were from the occupied territories and forced into prostitution. Quite open about his involvement he told Dad that he actually worked for the underground movement which I’m sure was true. We looked around the darkened bedrooms but strangely saw no one. Then back at his apartment he gave us a small suitcase before we left saying it was a present. We were puzzled by this as it weighed quite a lot and were in for a nice surprise. It contained a stolen suckling pig so it was Christmas while it lasted. What little happy memories I have of those grim years are those spent with the A. family. We got on well with Alfonso and Ricardo the two older boys and also HV the eldest daughter. An attractive girl she was a talented pianist who after the war went to London to study music. Papa was a small quiet man who was the principal of the school as well as the head of the Filipino community. Mrs. A. was tall, glamorous and very much the diplomat’s wife. She looked very attractive in national costume. It was a see-through blouse with large peaked sleeves worn at functions held in their large house on special occasions. They employed music teachers and were kind enough to give L. and myself music tuition but after a few piano lessons I gave up. L. did better with the violin. They had a radio set which was quite a rare sight in those days, especially as the Japanese authorities allowed them to keep it. There was a catch; the wave change knob had a piece of paper tape glued across it to prevent anyone listing to the ĂŰŃż´«Ă˝ broadcast on long wave from India. As the radio was inspected by the police at regular intervals Mrs. A. covered the knob to prevent the children inadvertently moving it. The penalty for listening to the Allied broadcast was severe indeed. I remember how the two Amahs they employed to look after the seven children used to chase after the younger ones in the evenings with spoons of rice whilst they ran around playing. Like most young children they showed no interest in the delicious looking food, which made my mouth water and stomach growl. There were lots of silly jokes and laughter there, which made us, forget the war, and I made up stories, which they loved to hear. Our excuse for going there almost daily was the delivery of the scraps from our kitchen, like shrimp heads and vegetable peelings from Dad’s luncheon business. It was carried in a strange bag made from an old green fire hose, which was waterproof, but it did stink. In their back garden there was a badminton court and a large chicken run with many fowls and ducks. We helped them cultivate the steep red soil hill at the back as a vegetable plot. Mr. Marsang a down-and-out Filipino schoolteacher was housed in the bicycle shed rent free in exchange for tuition for the older boys. He taught them math’s and was in poor health, and had to find his own food. We used to chat to him whilst he cooked an awful looking mess, made from the stones of the durian fruit, which he gathered of the streets. He said there was nourishment in them but it didn’t help because the poor chap died later. One day as I was on my way home from their place I heard a commotion nearby so I went to have a look. A noisy crowd of Chinese was gathered round, shouting abuse at a man bound hand and foot on the ground, minus his trousers. Apparently he had been caught stealing and was now awaiting the arrival of the Japanese police. Pleading for mercy and lying in a pool of his urine I felt sorry for the poor chap. Back at school we were given free tickets for a film show at the Cathay cinema nearby. This was the tallest and most modern building in Singapore at the time, housing the Malayan Broadcasting Corporation as well as luxury apartments. We had never experienced an air-conditioned cinema before, so it was going to be a real treat. The film turned out to be a let-down because it was all in Japanese. Long and boring it was all about the Samurai waging war against the cunning westerners trying to get a foothold in Japan in the early eighteenth century. At least we had a quiet chuckle at the comical looking Japanese actors with their long false noses acting the part of the foreigners.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.