The Heart Remembers

By Rosie Wee

Min Joon makes Leng a solemn promise before leaving to fight in the war against the Japanese and to free Singapore. He will return to her, and as a mark of their love, reunite the two halves of a pendant they each carry. After the war, they met again, but she was already married to another.

 

Fast forward 27 years. Leng's daughter, Jeanette, in the process of publishing her book, The Implications that Memories of the War Held in Creating a National Identity, engaged in a series of interviews with Min Joon for his part in the Japanese Occupation and the Emergency period. The interviews led to an unravelling of a 30-year-old secret.

 

Rosie Wee's debut novel grapples with the sweep of historical events that plunged Singapore and Malaya into war and struggle between 1942 and 1969. Her fictional characters blend seamlessly with real historical figures as events unfold and flesh out in dramatic scenes. The episodic plot, fraught with tension, violence, and danger, is balanced and tempered with joy, love, tenderness — the stuff of the human condition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Candid Creation Publishing
• Release date: Oct 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9789811482366

Rosie Wee

A graduate of Master of Arts in English Studies at the National University of Singapore (NUS), ROSIE WEE was Head of Department (English and Literature) in a secondary school before her retirement in 2005. Post retirement, she was a part-time tutor at the Centre for Language and Communication at NUS from 2006 to 2011. She has conducted workshops and training sessions in materials development and pedagogy for teachers in Singapore, Soroako (Sulawesi), and Chongqing Technology and Business University, People’s Republic of China. Marshall Cavendish has published two of her children’s books: Pinky and How the Tiger Got Its Stripes, in addition to English books for schools in Singapore and the Caribbean. The Awakening: Stories & Poems was launched at the Singapore Writers Festival 2018. The National Library of Singapore endorsed the book and it is available in all the public libraries. One of her short stories, “The Awakening”, was included in I M AGE: NUS Senior Alumni 5th Anniversary Commemorative Book 2010–2015. She has also self-published Through My Lens (a juxtaposition of her paintings and poems), and a non-fiction self-help book, You Are A Mess: How to Remove the Parasites and Live a Clutter-free Life. PASSAGE, a magazine for the Friends of the Museum, has featured a number of her essays. Her article, “Teaching Language Through Literature”, has been published by the Association for Supervision and Curriculum Development, Singapore in the ASCD Review, Volume 19 No. 2. As a volunteer docent, she guides at the National Museum of Singapore and the National Gallery, Singapore. She is in her element when sharing her knowledge of art, culture, and history with visitors to the museum. As a volunteer with the National Library Board and RSVP Singapore, she has interviewed individuals and written interview scripts for the Singapore Memory Project, Oral History Centre (National Archives of Singapore), Singapore Bicentennial Project, and the RSVP 20th Anniversary Commemorative Book. Rosie paints, and her works have been sold at charity dinners. One of her paintings has been donated to her church, and proceeds from the sale of some of her works have been donated to the church.

Book preview

Prologue

Each blade of grass has its spot on earth

whence it draws its life, its strength;

and so is man rooted to the land from

which he draws his faith together with his life.

– Lord Jim, Joseph Conrad

Singapore, 1975

Jeanette scanned the photos which Min Joon fanned out for her.

That’s Lim Bo Seng, Teck, and me, taken at the camp a month after our arrival. Bo Seng was fantastic. He would cook up something zesty with whatever ingredients he could get hold of. I suppose he must have picked up his culinary skills from his Peranakan wife, Joon said. I should have learnt from my mother, but never bothered, he grinned. Beside him is Teck. Teck and I were Raffles College students majoring in Economics before the war came. We reported to Force 136 soon after Singapore surrendered to the Japanese.

Jeanette listened intently. Now and then, she would scribble some keywords on her notepad. She had her tape recorder turned on in case she missed the crucial parts of Joon’s story. Her thick black hair was swept up, ending in a bun that rested snugly on her crown like the char siew buns in Chinese dim sum shops. Except for loose powder and a touch of lipstick, her make-up was minimal, giving her a fresh, natural look. Her cotton blouse was tucked into her jeans. In place of a handbag, she carried a haversack that sat like a troll on the terrazzo floor beside her.

Piqued by her demeanour, Joon looked at her with a tinge of amusement — independent, nondescript, and yet appealing. Smart and confident. This lady is not your typical damsel in distress, he mused. Occasionally, Jeanette would ask a question, looking earnestly at him with those dancing eyes. When she smiled, her dimple tangoed alongside her eyes. She exuded an irresistible charm, but it was those eyes that were disturbing. They could be carbon copies of someone he knew.

By engaging in a series of interviews with Min Joon for his role in the Japanese Occupation and the Emergency period, Jeanette would have substantial information for her soon-to-be-published book, The Implications that Memories of the War Held in Creating a National Identity. After a few more questions, Jeanette packed up to leave. The interview had to stretch for several sessions, and this was only the first.

As the rap of Jeanette’s heels faded away, Joon turned towards the window of his high-rise office building in Shenton Way. Far off were the freighters, tankers, and container ships. The ribbon of water that formed the Singapore River merged and blended with the Singapore harbour. Ships lined up and waited their turn to be offloaded at the piers. There was a time when junks with accordion-like sails would push steadily forward, while barefoot coolies, with torn singlets and patched shorts, waited expectantly at the gangplanks to unload the sacks of rice from the junks and cargo boats, using their muscles and back-breaking labour, for fifty cents per load.

During his vacation from Raffles College, his father had insisted that Joon follow him around to learn the business. He would be sent to the warehouses to supervise the coolies and check on the unloading of the goods. These warehouses would carry a variety of fragrances as the scents of pepper, chillies, cloves, and cinnamon wafted through. He disliked going to the ones filled with sheets of rubber because of their pungent smell. Singapore was the port the Chinese, the Arabian, and the European seafarers plied to in order to exchange their wares — porcelain and silk for spices. That was 1939, before the war came.

Beyond the stretch of water in the north lay the Causeway that linked Malaya to Singapore, like an umbilical cord. He thought of the marriage of convenience between the two countries in 1963, the inevitable separation in 1965, and the social unrest and racial riots in between. There was so much hatred, killing, and thirst for blood like a re-enactment of the war years, except that the heinous acts were not caused by a common enemy but were communal. In his mind’s eye, he saw the neutral jungles of Malaya that witnessed the birth of nationalism, the clash of ideologies, and the building of a nation.

He thought of his life, unfurled like a Chinese scroll with the events etched. It had taken a war, the agonies of separation, torture, and tumultuous upheavals to be where he was today. Like Job, I too have been through the valley of death, he reminisced.

Dappled sunlight sparkled and streaked the water like a sheet of creased tinfoil while on the Pan Island Expressway, cars queued bumper to bumper forming the usual rush hour traffic, creating a muffled din. New tall buildings — like fingers pointing skyward — had replaced the old ones.

The chatter of office workers and the drone of telexes were stilled. It was 6:00 p.m.; time for them to return home, but the usual time for him to stay on to clear his backlog of cases. However, he was tired. The lengthy interview with Jeanette had brought back painful memories of the war, like removing the scab from the wound each time the pain seemed to be lessening. Memories that would otherwise lie buried in the crevices of his mind. Yet, at the age of 57, how much was there left for him except memories? And one day, even these would be taken from him, leaving him a walking shadow with neither the past nor the future. He mulled over the twists and turns his life had taken — a reckless, carefree youth until the war came and changed everything. The saffron haze of the sky as the sun began to descend brought him back. It was time to pack up and leave.

He skimmed through the mail that Jane, his secretary, had left for him. Among them was the court hearing of Johnston, who was standing trial for the murder of his wife. The evidence appeared to point to him, but a person is innocent until proven guilty. Joon had been appointed by the State to defend him. His eyes rested on an invitation by the Defence Ministry to attend the yearly War Memorial Ceremony held at the War Memorial Park in Beach Road to commemorate the civilian victims of the Japanese Occupation. The theme was Lest We Forget. How ironic, given he would rather lock away those painful memories. And yet, he made it a point to attend this yearly event because a country cannot deny its past. When he complained of his memory occasionally failing him, Jeanette had said, Write them down, the memories that are important to you. By weaving part of your life into the fabric of history, you are capturing them and leaving it as a legacy for posterity. She had seen the shade of sadness in his eyes. We all have memories, good and bad. Who is to say that all memories are happy? What is more important is that we don’t live a wasted life, he had told Jeanette.

At JadeVille, he was greeted by 70-year-old Ah Kuan, his manservant who had faithfully served his grandfather, father, and now him. Hunched and mired in wrinkles, he had aged significantly alongside the building. His hands were brown and creased like ginseng roots.

Joon had not bothered to repair the damage to the building when it was partially bombed in December 1941. Part of the wall that enclosed the garden had collapsed into a rubble of concrete and twisted steel. Moss and leprous patches of fungus had inhabited the remains of the wall and ferns sprouted from the cracks. It remained spectral-like in the soft amethyst wash of evening. He would let the void space remain as a testimony to the vestigial effects of war on a country. JadeVille retained its hoard of memories. It was there that his brother was taken by the Japanese and tortured during the Double Tenth Swoop. But JadeVille had also seen better times when his father had thrown dinner parties to entertain his business associates, including the Japanese.

Ah Kuan brought in his pot of tea and a plate of cut fruit. Goodnight, Mr Bong, and sleep well, were his usual departing words. Joon lifted the teapot cover to ensure the tea had been well steeped before pouring it into the cup. The convoluted dark tea leaves reminded him of fortune tellers of yesteryear who would read the tea leaves and spin tales of the future. What future is in store for me, he wondered.

His bedroom was the same as it was during his growing-up years. Ah Kuan would dutifully change the bed sheets every three weeks regardless of his absence. It gave him a comforting feeling that his master would one day return.

As a matter of habit, Joon would take out a square box from his bedside drawer, remove the phoenix pendant and caress it with his thumb before replacing it. There was no photo of Leng and no need for one because when he died and they cut open his chest, her name would be engraved on his heart.

As he lay on his bed, he would ask God to let Leng appear in his dream. Eva had once said to him, You will never be happy as long as she lives. Perhaps God doesn’t want me to be happy, were his last thoughts. He tried to hold on to her voice, her face — the image faded in and out before fatigue and sleep overtook him.

PART I

1939–1942

But no matter how much a losing battle, we must continue to fight against the apathy of time and to transmit a knowledge of our history to our young — and not through textbooks and recited dates, but through an emotional understanding and empathy with the past. …

But if I were to write it, I would recall memories instead.

Ho Kwon Ping

from his address at the launch of

Singapore: The First Ten Years of Independence 1965–1975

Singapore, 1939

The headline of The Malaya Tribune screamed:

Attempted Murder of a Member of the Legislative Council

On 3rd September 1939, Kenneth Anderson, a member of the Legislative Council, was stabbed in JadeVille, a villa owned by Bong Hoe Ek and his son, Bong Chek Sun. An Indian waiter has been arrested. The motive is unknown and investigations are ongoing.

The report was brief, but the sensational news sent shock waves through the British community residing in Singapore. How could this have happened? They felt anger mingled with a streak of fear. The locals viewed it differently. To some it was to be expected, as if it was a confirmation of a belief.

JadeVille shimmered beneath the September moon. It had witnessed numerous celebrations: weddings, birthdays, festivities, and any excuse for a party. The 3rd of September 1939 was one such day. It was Min Joon’s 21st birthday party.

The garden was transformed into a fairyland with lighted lanterns hanging on tree branches. Candles, floating on brass plates in the shape of water lilies, illuminated the pond. Water cascaded down the rock garden, bonsai plants and small stone bridges skirted the pool, while stately palms and feathery bamboos lined the pathway. Far off, the pavilion stood like a lotus flower in bloom. The air was redolent with the aroma of jasmine, roses, rhododendron, heliconia, and other nectarean plants.

Guests started arriving as early as 6:30 p.m. Most of them were Min Joon’s friends including his classmates from Raffles College — Khoo Teck Seng, Arjun Nair, and Abdul Rahman. Khong Beng, who was from King Edward VII Medical College, was accompanied by his sister, Suan Choo, and his cousin, Eva. Poh Leng, a former classmate of Suan Choo’s from the Singapore Chinese Girls’ School, was also there. Masaru Tanaka, his Japanese ju-jutsu martial arts instructor, had also been invited.

Min Joon’s father, Chek Sun, had taken the opportunity to invite some of his friends and business associates — the wealthy and the well connected. Invitations had been extended to a member of the Legislative Council, Kenneth Anderson, and his wife, Chinese tycoons, Malay aristocrats, as well as to an eminent physician, Dr Lim Boon Keng, and a Japanese business associate, Hayashi Watanabe.

Chek Sun and his wife, Su Yen, stood at the portico steps to receive the guests as chauffeur-driven Rolls Royces and Jaguars negotiated the winding driveway.

Fascinated by the splendour of the building, Poh Leng slipped into a softly lit passageway with rows of family photos and portraits hanging on the wall. Among them was a portrait painting of the patriarch, Bong Hoe Ek. She stopped in her stride for a closer look. A sturdy man in his seventies, he stood with upright posture and shoulders perfectly squared, an air of understated elegance. White hair framed his face. There was power in those deep dark eyes that exuded determination. He was dressed in a champagne silk mandarin top and black flowing trousers.

Looks like you are fascinated by that painting.

She turned around to see Min Joon, a robust youth with somewhat unruly thick black hair. With a body well sculpted by hours in the gym and lessons in ju-jutsu, he could be a poster boy for exercise equipment. He wore black pants and a crisp pastel blue shirt, with the top unbuttoned to expose an Adonis chest, and sleeves rolled part way up.

That portrait of my grandpa was painted by the renowned Chinese artist, Xu Beihong, China’s modern master, Joon smiled.

Ah, yes, it’s beautifully done, Leng said.

The rich, mellow sound of her voice and the energy that crackled within intrigued Joon. She was in a lime-coloured chiffon dress, her hair swept up, held by clips and accentuated by a jade hairpin — a tall demure Chinese with a classical kind of beauty and innate elegance. He felt a stirring in his loins. He had been told about her but was still not prepared for her striking good looks, breathtaking teasing eyes, thick black hair and her cheeks, a radiant glow. If I were a painter, I would do her justice, he thought.

Ah, so you are here, Khong Beng interrupted them. He was accompanied by Suan Choo and Teck. Well, you have already met even before I could introduce you. Joon, this is Poh Leng, the lady I’ve been telling you about, he said.

Min Joon’s hand held Leng’s just a little too long; his eyes fixed on her.

Leng gave Khong Beng a nudge. What have you been telling him about me?

Oh, nothing but compliments, of course.

Don’t you know? Leng is the Li Lihua of Singapore, said Suan Choo.

Happy birthday, Joon. Teck shook Joon’s hand then handed him his present. A breeze wafted the smell of barbecued chicken through the open window. The mouth-watering aroma drew them to the lawn. It was dinner time.

Joon’s father had engaged itinerant hawkers to set up stalls on the lawn. There was the satay man with his improvised barbecue pit in which he grilled his sticks of assorted meat — chicken, beef, and mutton. It was fascinating watching him baste the raw meat with a stalk of lemongrass soaked in peanut oil, causing the flame to flare intermittently. Guests were presented with a bowl of spicy gravy into which they repeatedly dipped their satay sticks. The other stalls comprised Hokkien prawn noodles from Hokkien Street, kway chap from Hock Lam Street, and the Arab Street nasi padang. The guests were spoilt for choice. Rahman, Arjun, and Masaru joined them. Teck had never tasted so much savoury food in his entire life.

The balmy night was fanned by a slight breeze, and the whisper of the sea added contentment to the satisfying dinner. The kronchong band started playing, enticing the guests to join in the revelry. A group was singing Burong Kakak Tua, a Malay folksong, and those who knew the lyrics joined in. The singing of Malay pantuns was one of the highlights whereby performers would engage in musical repartee. Chek Sun drew Su Yen to the dance floor to do a joget, and other couples followed suit.

The atmosphere was resplendent, filled with sounds of laughter, merriment, and the clink of glasses. It was a night of singing and dancing; the prospect of war was too remote to consider but remained a cause for concern for some.

This war talk is getting hot.

There’ll never be a war here.

What makes you so sure?

Singapore is an impregnable fortress. The British have put in place a strategy — the naval base, the 25-Pounder Field Gun.

If war comes to Singapore, it would be a British problem. How can they forsake the Gibraltar of the East?

We can foresee a boost in demand for tin and rubber because of the war in Europe.

Germany had been pushed too hard after World War I.

On the Asian front, Canton has been taken by the Imperial Japanese army.

There’s talk about slowing down Japan’s war machine by getting America to limit supplies of oil and raw materials to Japan.

Japan has captured Nanking and committed a massacre.

Yah, Tan Kah Kee has set up the China Relief Fund to help China’s war effort.

The waiters moved about serving drinks and finger food to the guests. Joon noticed one particular Indian waiter carrying a tray covered by a napkin. Feeling uneasy, he was about to approach the waiter when Eva stepped in front of him.

Let’s dance, Eva whispered to Joon, linking her arms around his. An opera singer’s make-up paled in comparison to hers. Her necklace of cheap pearls adorned the scented cleft between her breasts. Joon hesitated, then obliged.

Looking on, Suan Choo nudged Poh Leng. That shameful vamp is out to get Joon. Poh Leng watched, bemused, and rather pleased with herself for not being as silly and giggly like Eva.

Is there a doctor here? Someone has been stabbed, a voice shouted.

Stunned, the guests turned towards the direction of the voice. Dr Lim Boon Keng and Khong Beng rushed forward. The member of the Legislative Council, Kenneth Anderson, lay sprawled on the ground, blood