Every month the money was handed over to the Japanese by Johnny and Chan Toh Kwan, a banker. The Marquis accepted the money graciously, with a touch of embarrassment, leaving the cheque on the table for the duration of the half-hour meeting. Tea was drunk and pleasantries exchanged. Chan’s sons, who were at school with me, would tell people how their father went “mad in the head” during these meetings. He broke out in a heavy sweat and found his throat too dry to speak. He left the talking to Johnny, who had taken over all negotiations with the Japanese. Often, Chan felt so weak and strange that he would have to leave the meeting early, letting Johnny deal with the Kempeitai alone. No other man but Johnny could have done this; no one had Johnny’s conviction. Chan, for example, was terrified of being branded a collaborator. He survived the war and returned to the OCBC afterwards, though he kept a low profile, avoiding public places for fear of being assassinated. Years later, he became addicted to video games and locked himself away, becoming particularly adept at Pac-Man in his old age. He became convinced that people were watching him everywhere he went, that he was being spied upon while in bed and on the toilet. The war broke him, that’s what his sons said. I remember them surrounded by groups of younger boys eager to hear their stories of the war. They were keen to tell as many people as they could about their father, to convince them that he was not a traitor. I don’t think it worked. Once opinions are formed, they are not easily changed. Curiously, they never spoke to me on the subject of war; they never discussed their father or mine. They didn’t dare.
The people of the Valley paid their taxes because Johnny said they had to. It was hard, but they trusted his wisdom. They were not siding with the Japanese, they were not funding the war against their brothers in China, he said; it was merely a matter of survival. In secret lectures he told them they were fooling the Japanese into believing the Valley was friendly. They had to be patient while their boys in the jungle mounted a campaign to topple the Japs.
Trust me, he said. Believe me.
And to this day I think people still believe what he said.
N EARLY AUGUST 1942 Johnny began to organise a top-secret, top-level meeting of the senior commanders of the Communist Party. An underground movement had already established a guerilla army called the Malayan Anti-Japanese People’s Army. Johnny must have thought of the name. It was ridiculous and overly grand for a group of malnourished, badly equipped Chinese adolescents camped in the jungle. Few people could remember or pronounce the name, and even its acronym was often forgotten. Nonetheless, this band of guerillas proved to be a hardened bunch. They attacked police stations and ambushed groups of Japanese soldiers returning from nights out at the army brothels. Once they even succeeded in kidnapping and killing a mid-ranking Japanese captain. The Valley was full of talk of British commandos who had stayed on behind enemy lines to train and organise these guerillas. People whispered about a $20 million reward for the head of any white man found in the jungle. Some villagers even claimed to have seen British soldiers alighting in twos and threes from small boats along the mangrove coastline.
Sixteen men formed the Supreme Central Committee of Communist commanders. The majority of them lived and fought in the heart of the jungle, but a number of them led double lives. Like Johnny, they were men of commerce and industry. It took many days for Johnny to spread word about the meeting to these men. With Japanese ears in every village, the old network of communication had become slower and more cautious. The news seeped slowly across the country, whispered by hidden mouths into invisible ears. The sense of anticipation grew with every whisper.
Johnny has summoned us to a meeting.
Johnny has been in touch with the British.
Johnny has weapons. He has plans.
A date was set: 1 September.
A place too: the massive catacomb of limestone caves lying just beyond the southernmost tip of the Valley.
The caves are a million years old and their secret depths have always inspired extremes in the hearts and minds of those people who come here. That is why, for over a century, Hindus have worshipped here at the shrines of Subramaniam and Ganesh. Once a year, the most devout of them paint their faces and unclothed bodies and walk barefoot over glowing embers of coal; others pierce their noses, cheeks, necks, and arms with immense skewers upon which fruit and other offerings are balanced.
It is just as well that worshippers come every year to this holy site. The layers and layers of devotion might someday erase the evil of that single day in 1942.
