A Bag of Memories

Starmag

Sunday February 3, 2009

A bag of memories By C.S. WAN

Some truths withstand the test of time. But, sometimes, it is simply time to let go and move on.

CHINESE New Year is just around the corner, and it is time again for the annual spring clean.
From underneath a ceiling-high pile of boxes in the storeroom, my wife drags out an old, battered bag.
It is bursting with children’s clothes. The sight rekindles memories of my mother and her words of wisdom.
“Siew Leng, remember to always keep some children’s clothes. They may come in handy in time of war.”
After decades of peace and prosperity, today's generation may find it hard to grasp Mother's concerns but she brought up five children through the turbulent years of the Japanese Occupation.

Mother with my sisters

Long after the suffering ended, the spectre of war continued to haunt her, and the hardship and misery she had to endure through those seemingly long years were indelibly etched in her memory. 

She remembered how her children had only a few pieces of rags which had been washed and scrubbed to tatters.
The slightest tear was quickly patched up with precious pieces of discarded cloth. When she ran out of sewing thread, she had to use fibres which she meticulously extracted from the pineapple leaves.
In a dilapidated kitchen, a pot of tapioca, balancing precariously on raised bricks, simmered over a slow fire. Mother would occasionally squat down to fan the fire.
Each time she got up from her squatting position, she felt an excruciating pain shoot up her legs, which had swollen to twice their normal size. She did not know the cause but Father said it could be due to vitamin deficiency as all we had were mostly tapioca and sweet potatoes.
As she hovered over the stove, Mother would recall how things had been so different during the pre-war years. 

Father at his office desk

Father was then a clerk in the Forest Department in Kuala Pilah, Negri Sembilan, and so had a steady income.
The children were well dressed, there was always plenty of food on the table and Amah was always there to help her with the household chores.
One morning, Father returned unexpectedly from work early and told Mother that Japanese soldiers had landed in Kota Baru.

Map showing the Japanese landing points

Hurriedly, we all squeezed into a waiting taxi, along with just one suitcase, and were driven to our maternal grandparent’s house in Malacca.
Father stayed behind to finish off some work. When news of the Japanese army's rapid advance down the Peninsula filtered to Kuala Pilah, he too decided to leave for Malacca. However, no car or taxi was available by then.
He had no choice but to make the long journey on foot. He joined the stream of evacuees pouring down the road to Singapore.

Stream of evacuees heading towards Singapore

Spurred on by the thought of his wife and five young children, he finally made it to Tampin, a trek of more than 60km (40 miles in those days). The soles of his feet were raw with burst blisters. From Tampin, he managed to hire a taxi to Malacca.
The next few months he began the laborious and unfamiliar task of converting a vacant lot into a vegetable garden. Father also scoured the nearby jungle for edible shoots and mushrooms. Mother then used her culinary skill to concoct delectable dishes out of these simple raw materials.
During the hasty evacuation, most of the cooking utensils and cookeries had been left behind. Mother had to make use of improvised cooking utensils. Coconut-shells were crafted into bowls and ladles. One day Father stumbled upon an alloy cup used for collecting latex at the foot of a rubber tree. It was cleaned and scrubbed and it became our favourite drinking cup.

A latex cup

One evening, at meal time, Mother prepared tapioca lempeng (pancake) for her family. Each of us was given our small share of the pancake. She was busy tidying up the kitchen when she felt a gentle tug at her sarung. She looked down and saw her eldest son holding an empty plate.
“Nya, can I have another piece?”
Gazing at the innocent and doleful eyes, she took the last remaining piece of lempeng and placed it carefully in the empty plate. That night she went to bed tired and hungry. But the sight of her son sleeping peacefully and soundly compensated for the gnawing pain in her stomach.
One of my earliest childhood memory of the Japanese Occupation is that of an elderly Japanese officer. At dusk, he would sometime stroll from his quarters behind our house and sit on a long wooden bench at the front porch.
One evening he sat stoically at his usual place and watched the barefooted children play with a toy car – a rusty milk can that was dragged along pebbles-strewn compound. He listened to the sound of their happy laughter that rang and reverberated through the still evening air.
Father noticed him taking out a faded family photo from a worn and tattered wallet. He gazed forlornly at the photo.

'He gazed forlornly at the photo

Tears started to well up in his eyes. The sight and sound had, perhaps, evoked fond memories of his loved ones back in Japan. 
It was 1946. The Second World War finally ended. Father returned to Kuala Pilah with his family and resumed work as a clerk in the Forest Department.
With a relatively good income again, he pampered his children with imported biscuits and chocolates and showered them with little luxuries. Perhaps the guilt of not being unable to provide the best for his wife and children during the war still haunted him.
As for the alloy cup, he brought it along with him to Kuala Pilah. He placed it among the more expensive ceramic cups. Perhaps, it was a memento to remind him of the the hardship during the Occupation.
Father passed away suddenly, and we moved back to Malacca. The alloy cup was left behind, unfortunately.
Otherwise, I am sure the much dented alloy cup would have a pride of place among the other souvenirs in our living room.
My wife looked at the old clothes spread out on the floor. All these years she had gone through the whole rigmarole of unpacking, packing and storing the bag in the same old place.  Now, as she held a dress against the light that filtered through the frosted glass window she noticed it was already stained yellow with age. They were stained and the children had long outgrown them. Perhaps the time had come to get rid of them. 

"The clothes were stained yellow with age

As she placed the clothes in the garbage bag she silently prayed that war would never rear its ugly head again.

You may also like to read about a young Japanese couple who was
our immediate neighbours.

Click below link.


Kolo the pup

Two dollars and fifty cents

The Star

Lifestyle

Monday 11 February 2008

Two dollars and fifty cents
By WAN CHWEE SENG

Reminiscing about the strength of the human spirit.

TI-N-N-NG! TO-N-N-NG! The strident chimes of the gate bell break the silence of the still, somnolent afternoon air. Stirred from my siesta, I peer warily through the half-opened window.
I catch sight of a teenage boy standing outside the gate in the scorching heat. When I am within earshot he says, “Uncle, please help buy a packet of ballpoint pens. I’m trying to raise money for my college fees.”
“How much?” I inquire.
“Only two ringgit and fifty sen.”
Perhaps, I am gullible but the imploring look in his eyes is more eloquent than his words. I dig into my pocket and draw out a RM5 bill which I hand to him. He thanks me profusely as I wave and wish him the very best of luck in his study.
“Only two ringgit and fifty sen.” Those softly-spoken words and the doleful look in his eyes somehow stir the memory of long forgotten incidents that had lain dormant all these years.
My thoughts flash back to my school days in the 1950s. Back then we used the Straits dollars and two dollars and fifty cents was big money then. Two dollars and fifty cents could mean the difference between acquiring an education and being a permanent school dropout. You see, two dollars and fifty cents was the amount of school fees that we had to pay promptly at the beginning of each month. Failure to do so would result in three reminders and then our names could be struck off the class register.
There was of course the limited “free places” reserved for the underprivileged pupils who performed well in school. These pupils were exempt from paying school fees but they had to be consistent in their studies or they would have to forfeit their places.
One afternoon I came back from school, full of excitement, and informed Father that I had been offered a free place. He congratulated me. Then he said, “I think you shouldn’t accept it. You know, you may deprive another less fortunate kid of an education.”
At first, I could not understand his decision. We were not rich. Mother was a homemaker and Father was a clerk with five school-going children. However, knowing his caring and compassionate nature, I declined the offer.
One morning, when I was in Form Three, Father suffered a stroke and passed away suddenly. Mother was left to raise eight children. Not entitled to any pension benefits and having to rely solely on Father’s gratuity, she had to eke out a living. Now, Mother allowed us to apply for a free place. My sister and I managed to get places which helped to ease our financial burden and see all of us through school. Soon, I went off to college and became a teacher.
If Mother and other less fortunate parents had to grapple with the problem of paying school fees before, now as a teacher I was faced with a different kind of problem.
Teachers in charge of the various Forms were assigned the task of collecting school fees, which we recorded diligently in the class register. We had to ensure that fees were paid promptly at the beginning of each month. Parents who defaulted on their payment could see their child’s name struck off the register.
Ah Meng, a student in my class, was a victim of such a system. I remember him well because he was an exceptionally bright student who would always come out top in class. One day, after term break, Ah Meng failed to attend class. His rubber tapper parents could not afford the fees and other school expenses. I felt sad and helpless.
Poverty had deprived a bright boy of an education.
I also vividly remember a Malay warden whose son was in my Remove Class. The boy was a pleasant and particularly bright pupil. At the beginning of each month, his father would never fail to come to my class. Long before his arrival, I could hear the squeak of his old bicycle, the crunching of wheels on pebbles and the screeching of brakes as he parked beside the classroom. With a broad grin on his face and bowing his head in his familiar humble and respectful way, he would extend his arms in greeting even before he reached the teacher’s table.
“Cikgu, I can’t pay now. I’ll pay later,” he would whisper apologetically.
It had become a monthly ritual, and I would smile and nod knowingly. I knew he would somehow find a way to pay the school fees.
He just required a little extra time. I would concoct excuses to allow him the necessary extension or come out with the needed advances. After Remove Class, I only met the warden on a few occasions and then I heard his son had got through his Form Five with flying colours. He left the school and I too left the school to further my studies.
One morning, I saw splashed across the front page of a local daily, “Trainee pilot killed in crash”.There was a familiar ring to the name of the victim. The pilot hailed from Malacca and his father was a warden.
My suspicions were confirmed. He was my ex-student. I felt a lump in my throat. I felt sad at the thought of a boy who had such a bright future before him. I felt sadder at the memory of a father who had to struggle to pay for his son’s education. I knew this man had pinned his hopes on his son to see him through his old age. Fate, however, had dealt him a cruel blow.
The sun has long gone down behind the line of trees; the evening shadows have lengthened.A young boy is still lugging a bag filled with ballpoint pens in the gathering darkness. I wonder if he has collected enough money for his fees. I think about my mother, about Ah Meng’s parents, the warden and others like them who, even though saddled with poverty, had done their best to ensure that their children received a good education. They were all self-reliant, had a sense of responsibility and fortitude of spirit.
Then I think about the thousands of study loan defaulters and I shake my head in disbelief.