T.K. lay on the wet dirt gasping thin breaths. His smoke-burnt lungs would never serve him properly again. He would spend the remainder of his days frail and infirm and in gratitude to Johnny, to the man who had saved his life when it seemed lost for certain. With his head resting on Johnny’s knee, T.K. opened his eyes to the soft rain. In the distance the famous Tiger Brand Trading Company lay smouldering, lost forever. Like everyone else present, T.K. knew that it was the end of his time as a great and powerful man. He knew it was the beginning of a new time in history.
NOT LONG AFTER the shop burnt down and Johnny saved T.K.’s life, the Japanese invaded Malaya. They marched unimpeded through the Northern states and in just two months took control of the entire country. Penang, Pearl of the Orient, and Singapore, the great Lion City — both surrendered in a matter of days. Between these two treasures the Valley fell swiftly, almost unnoticed, into the hands of the Japanese. They ran through the towns and villages, barely pausing to plant flags of the Rising Sun before moving on. The red dust kicked up by the soldiers’ boots hung in the air, turning it crimson before settling on the leaves of the trees; all along the roads the trees turned red, and in some parts of the Valley it was said that the streams ran deep scarlet. A hush fell across the land. At night people closed their eyes and covered their ears. They did not want to hear the sound of locked doors being broken down or the distant crackle of a village set on fire.
It was here, in the early months of this strange new land, that Johnny committed his most terrible deed. Nothing in his later life can ever be compared to what my father did on 1 September 1942, the day my mother died and I was born.
By the end of January 1942, a Japanese administrative office had been firmly established in the Valley and was beginning to put things in order. The head of the Kempeitai, the Japanese secret police, was a man called Mamoru Kunichika. After the war he published a book about his memories of the war called Memories of Wartime Malaya. The photograph of him on the dust jacket shows a genial-looking man, thin and angular, with smiling eyes. The book presents a picture of the Valley so calm that you wonder if war was actually taking place at the time. It tells the story of a young man plucked from the relative obscurity of Kyoto University and thrust into the Secret Service solely because of his academic brilliance and fluency in Southeast Asian languages. He finds himself in Malaya, where the local people are welcoming and cooperative. They are glad to be rid of the British and thankful for Japanese rule. Of course there are disturbances now and again, for Communist guerillas are active in the jungles, but by and large the Occupation runs smoothly, without incident. The book is full of anecdotal incidents of Japanese and local people sharing cigarettes and whisky and other such wartime luxuries; minor altercations with deceitful servants; “amusing” misunderstandings of local customs; etc.
We are told how he acquired his nickname, The Marquis. Not long after he arrived in Malaya, he was visiting the regional administrative office in Tapah when he was introduced to an (unnamed) “eminent and influential leader of the Chinese community.” This Chinese gentleman seemed young but very enlightened, unlike most sullen-faced and devious Chinese Kunichika had come across. Although, through his education, Kunichika had managed to overcome the traditional Japanese prejudices against the Chinese, he nonetheless felt the need to be cautious when dealing with them. Mistrust runs deep between the two peoples, he says. This Chinese gentleman, however, made him feel perfectly at ease because of his dignity of bearing and propriety of etiquette, and Kunichika felt no need to be wary. The gentleman thought that Kunichika himself must be a man of good breeding and considerable education; he asked Kunichika if he was of samurai descent, for he had read about the histories of the great samurai families and recognised Kunichika’s surname. Bashfully, Kunichika answered: yes, he was. It was a relief to have one’s background appreciated, writes Kunichika, especially by such an unlikely person. This gentleman went on to say that it was an honour to meet such a distinguished person, and that if Kunichika did not mind, he would address Kunichika by his proper title, Marquis. Kunichika felt inclined to tell him that this was technically not his correct title, but refrained, so as not to cause any offence. That was how he got his nickname. As for the Chinese gentleman, well, Kunichika and he became good friends during the Occupation, spending much time together despite comment from Kunichika’s colleagues and the man’s Chinese friends. After the Japanese surrender in 1945, Kunichika took his leave from his friend and parted with tears in his eyes.
