Finding Maria by Dawn Farnham

Author:Dawn Farnham [Farnham, Dawn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781912049257
Publisher: Monsoon Books Pte. Ltd.
Published: 2017-08-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 19

‘A suggestion that the United Malay National Organisation should intervene in the case of Maria Hertogh, the little Dutch girl, has been made by a columnist of the Kuala Lumpur Malay daily, Majilis.’

The Singapore Free Press, 14 August 1950

The letter on the hall table was from England. Annie picked it up and looked at the return address. Doctor Marjorie Worth. She had been one of the doctors at the internment camp. Maria had told her that Dr Worth was writing a memoir of the time in Changi, lest the world, in this brave new world, might forget.

Annie took the letter to the living room and slit its top with the paper knife and unfolded the thick wad of pages. She settled in the wicker chair.

My Dear Annie,

I hope that this letter finds you well. Jean has told me you are living in Australia, in Perth, in a climate that is most conducive to health. I remember that, when the liberation came, uncertainty hung over your future and you were so very alone. I hope you have found friends and loving companions in your new home.

I must tell you I miss the tropical nights on occasion when we are pinched and cold before the fire and the rain is teeming outside. Sometimes, even, you will be surprised to hear, I miss the companionship, amongst the hardship, of those prison walls. Now, when my belly is full and I can walk along a country lane with my dog in perfect freedom, I allow myself to dwell on the good memories of that time and the remarkable courage and often incredible good humour of the women with whom I shared those days. Women, more than men, take root in the present, whatever that may be, and the disturbance of the root is painful. In our case the roots were three and a half years old and they had flowered into loyal friendships, in much that was arresting, new and strange, and in a life permeated with an extraordinary sense of community and closely-knit fellowship.

Nobody, however sympathetic, can ever quite be able to grasp the stories we tell them or see the funny side of what we laugh at, or realise any of the intangible things that must be left unsaid. Eventually you cease to tell them. There is an air of almost obscene urgency to forget the past, which I still have to come to terms with. Even now, after five years, it is still strange to be free, to have the liberty of choice and not to bear the daily responsibility of playing one’s part, however insignificant it might be, in a communal life against heavy odds. It has been difficult to become an individual again.

I am writing a memoir for I fear that this kind of history, the women’s history, will be entirely forgotten, amongst the dramatic remembrances of men.

Jean has asked me in particular to write to you about your own situation and I am happy, if it can help you, to share with you what I know of that time.

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