King Rat

You’re very lucky, she told herself. Lucky to have so much—a lovely house, two wonderful healthy children, a good man to look after you and love you. Oh yes, the Colonel loves you, there is no doubt of that. No doubt. Yes, Mema Angela McCoy, nee Douglas, you are lucky.

Thinking of her name, she began to think of her life. There were two parts. From when she was born, to February 13, 1942. And from then onwards.

Mem did not want to think, alone on the veranda. But she knew she would tonight—in spite of her wish. In spite of her self promise. Perhaps it is wise to think, she reasoned, wise to think of the good and the bad. Then the dreams would leave her be.

Thirteen. Thirteen had always been her lucky number in her first life. She was born on the thirteenth, she had left England on the thirteenth for Malaya. She had met Mac on the thirteenth and she had married him on the thirteenth. But the thirteenth of February was not lucky. Or perhaps it was; it depended on how you looked at it. Even in her second life, the thirteenth was a little lucky for Nobu had been born on that day.

And as she sat on the veranda, surrounded by richness and ornaments of exquisite taste and high cost, and the zephyr wind caressed her, the turntable of her mind told Mac, who was dead but the focus of her first life, the well-rehearsed and well-told story of the second life.

“You see, Mac, it began on the thirteenth of February. Singapore fell—capitulated—on the twelfth. Our ship was off Sumatra heading out into the Indian Ocean. Then suddenly we were in the sea, and drowning, Angus and I, and Angus was in my arms. There were many planes, at first machine-gunning. Then later, I don’t know how much later, a big ship, a Japanese warship passed by. There were some of us who were picked up. Others were left, but we were picked up, Angus and I. I can’t remember much about the boat. There were only a few of us, all English, and all from the boat. The children were crying and so were the women in the little cabin. The rest of the time on the ship is a fog, until the engines stopped and we were told to go on deck. Then I saw we were in a port. The port was in flames and ships were on fire. One huge warehouse exploded and debris scattered the dockside. Overhead were Japanese planes and the wharfs were alive with Japanese ships loading and unloading. There were many bodies lying in the sun, and the smell of death was over everything. At first I thought we were in Java, but I saw a sign which said Oasthaven and I remembered that Oasthaven was in Sumatra.

“We were herded into a truck and taken to a schoolhouse under guard. When we got there, there were other women and children. I think they were mostly Dutch. Some were English. One woman with two children was from an oil field north. She said they had taken her husband away for questioning a few days ago. But he hadn’t returned. And he never did come back.

“We were in the schoolhouse for a month. Food was little and sanitation was nonexistent. One of the children died. Angus, bless him, weathered it quite well, but he had fever and we had no drugs. It was bad, sitting, watching him, knowing that a little quinine would cure him. But there was none to be had. After we had been locked up there for two months, they began questioning us. Asking us about our husbands. I told them you were in the army. I told them about our plantation in Kedah. They were very angry that you had not stayed on the plantation and were angry at me. I tried to explain to them that, in war, well, men are supposed to go to war. Isn’t that so?

“When four months had passed, five of the children had died. And two of the women. One of the women had gone mad. To save her child, we had to hold her down. I think we held her too hard, for the next day we found she was dead. Her child was only six months old, half gone with fever. I suppose watching her child, watching the child die, waiting for her to die, was too much for her. Her blood was on our hands. Then one day a young officer came and looked us over. We knew he was looking at us as women. He tempted one. She was unmarried, a sprite of a thing. We never saw her again. Her name was Gina.