The Timor Man (13 page)

 

The screaming prisoner curled his body in the foetal position, in terror, pressed hard against the wall, holding his hands at first around his legs and then quickly up before his face to protect his head from the blows. The other prisoner lay groaning on the floor as the interrogator took his knife and swung the bladed weapon with the skill of a butcher, severing the man's left ear and two fingers, cutting the soft bone and tissue with a quick slicing motion of the wrist.

The prisoner remembered being struck. The severity of the blow brought him to his knees as the wind gushed from his lungs. He knew he should have anticipated the elbow to the stomach;
Allah
knows he had learned enough to understand the dangers of silent insolence; the failure to accept total subjugation at the hands of those in command at the detention centre for political detainees.

These guardians of the malcontents, runaways, perpetual troublemakers and other lost souls were hand selected for their unswerving obedience and callousness. Mean and extremely vindictive, they vented their frustrations on the inmates, most of whom were guilty of no greater crime than that of ignorance.

How many times had he already been struck? Twenty? Thirty? The pain was extreme. He dry-heaved momentarily then, agonizingly, dragged himself upright. His eyes were partly glazed but reflected the hate he felt for his new found jailers. His stomach heaved again. More blows. Then more pain followed by a vicious onslaught of kicks to the back and thighs.

To his right were other custodians. He knew there would be no respite should he react to the guards' onslaught. Obedience was the key and one might survive only if perceived to be subservient. Opposition was for fools and would be counter-productive. He knew this much. He had sufficient experience as an interrogator to appreciate the hopelessness of his situation. God how quickly the transition had occurred!

Another kick. He groaned with the pain. And then another, this time causing him to fall again. He knew that he should not remain on the ground. This would only invite further punishment. His mouth was dry and his mind confused. He knew from the force of the blow that someone had kicked him in the head as he fought to maintain consciousness. Somewhere in the back of his mind he could identify what was happening. He had seen it before. He knew he had seen others struggling in fear, attempting to avoid the inevitable.

But now there was something wrong. He was the prisoner and someone else was delivering the cruel blows! It was a nightmare. Next would come the interrogation. Followed by total submission. He knew. It had been his duty before; in another lifetime. Blood filled his mouth. He was losing consciousness again. Next would come the final interrogation and the ultimate loss of one's self respect as he would be obliged to plead for his life. Total submission. The pain would far exceed the requirement placed on one's honour and he would accept the inevitable. He tried to grimace but his jaw was broken.

Honour! He wanted to scream. What would they know about Honour!

Another dogma instilled during one of those courses — which one was it now, the Code of Conduct or the Interrogation Techniques Course? His chest heaved, convulsed, and finally slowed as he forced his mind to maintain control over his battered body. Then he lost consciousness. His custodians instructed other inmates to drag him through the yards, his boots drawing almost identical snail-like tracks in the ground. The semi-conscious body was dumped unceremoniously on the floor in a solitary cell. Someone doused him with water. The surrounds stank of the previous tenant and those before him, for this was the ultimate in seclusion, and he slowly recognized the hopelessness of his predicament.

The beatings recommenced. He screamed and cursed as he willed his body to maintain consciousness, fighting off the waves of darkness sweeping over his body urging him to surrender, to sleep. He had been observed. The silent figure stood there watching the intense beating, watching every blow delivered as the prisoner's body jumped and bucked, involuntarily spasms twisting the torso, reflecting the excruciating pain as the punishment continued on and on, in one final attempt to break the man's spirit. Occasionally the stranger drew heavily on his cigarette to disguise his own disgust. He had to know if this prisoner could be the man he had searched for: his instrument.

The beatings continued. The punishment was inhuman but he didn't interfere. He had to know. The nauseating stench of the cell was more than offensive. Yet it was not just the accumulated human waste which offended the nostrils.

It was the smell of fear. Of death.

The punishment ceased momentarily. Some minutes passed and the prisoner groaned. Somewhere in the darkness of his mind he thought he heard someone speak. The voice had that deep-throated pitch, the resonance almost soothing as he tried to identify what was being said. His fatigued mind groped for reality. He knew someone was talking about him. Maybe there to do a body count. He raised his head a fraction and was unable to establish whether he was in the cells, or dead, and if the body men were perhaps waiting quietly to take his mortal remains away. He fainted.

Somebody coughed. The prisoner awoke. His surroundings had changed. He was positioned on a chair, his head resting on an old table. The room was poorly lit. A light hung low, perilously close to his face. He opened his eyes, moaned, then passed back into semi-consciousness. The shock of the cold water thrown over his head and neck partially revived his senses. The guards retreated, leaving him to his misery. He collapsed into sleep, exhausted, only to be awakened by the quiet. He had no idea how he had slept but when he moved, the shooting pain signalled that it had not been long enough.

 

He was aware of the presence of another in the room. His swollen eyes would not permit clear vision as he squinted in the general direction of the shadow. The silent observer's breathing was the only indication of his presence. The man moved slowly from the dark corner of the interrogation room and, lifting the prisoner's head slightly, observed the broken features, then permitted the beaten skull to fall listlessly back onto the table.

“
Your life is in my hands, Major. Do you wish to live or end the suffering now?
”

The beaten officer again attempted to lift his head to identify the threatening voice. He cried out in agony as he succeeded in pushing himself up and away from the table. The figure in front of him was blurred. He realized that he had to respond — or die!

“
Mati atau hidup, terserah!
” he cried out weakly, almost insolently.

As the shadowy figure moved closer the prisoner prepared for the blow which did not come. The intruder observed the beaten body before him and admitted in his own mind that the officer's resilience to punishment had to be admired.

This was the man he wanted! This was the soldier he had to have and control to carry out his demands without question. Without remorse! He had searched the prisons for months, examining the scum imprisoned awaiting their executions for the role they played in the failed
coup d'etat
. For most there would be no time-consuming trial, just interrogation and execution.

He needed a man who had this one's talent. One who had lost everything and yet was prepared to accept an arrangement which would wipe the slate clean, so to speak. He leaned over close to the battered face and spoke quietly to the semi-conscious criminal.

“
I will send you for re-indoctrination Major, conditional on your swearing on the Holy Koran that you will serve me faithfully and comply to my every command. Do you understand?
”

The Major could barely comprehend the words of his benefactor. He turned his head slowly immediately wishing he hadn't as the pain shot quickly along the side of his bloodied neck and shoulders, signalling him to move his head no further. He looked out through the corner of his half closed left eye, the other now completely useless from the earlier beating. The figure there was difficult to distinguish from the other silhouettes in the interrogation room. The man was in uniform. Too difficult to determine which, in the dim light.

His spirit near broken, the Major accepted it was time to listen to what this stranger had to say. He had finally come to terms with his predicament and understood that he was close to death. He had lost. No doubt all or most of his men would by now have met their
ajal
, or predestined time of death. Although a Communist unit, all of his troops were Moslem by faith. This, unfortunately, would not have saved them from their executioners.

He tried to respond but his voice was hoarse. The visitor moved forward to give him water from the filthy dish. The major gratefully grabbed and gulped before it could be taken away.

“
Sudahlah
,” he whispered hoarsely, finally surrendering all remaining resistance.

The shadowy figure moved back quickly to the broken man's side and, with a slow movement so as not to indicate a blow, he placed his gloved hand at the base of the Major's neck and, leaning to within earshot, he whispered his message to the exhausted body in front of him.

“
You will be rehabilitated and then escorted to a special training camp. You will be taught that strict obedience will be required at all times. I will personally keep your arrest and charges file to ensure your loyalty. I have the power to have you returned to this or a similar centre at any time. Should you fail me at any task you are given then you may expect a continuance of what you have suffered here in prison. You are fortunate as I don't believe there are many officers who sympathized with or supported the Communists who have managed to survive the firing squads.
”

“
Terima kasih, Bapak
,” was all the broken-spirited soldier could muster.

“
Your name is to be changed. We will find something suitable to fit the records. You are to completely disassociate yourself with your past, family and friends. Is this quite clear to you, Mas?
”

The Major staggered to his feet, grunting with pain. He wanted to stand erect to indicate his acceptance and obedience but he could not.

“
Saya sumpah, Bapak,
” he managed, swearing a holy oath.

Colonel Seda smiled as he considered the irony of a Communist army Major now swearing allegiance to a Christian with a Moslem oath. He approached the Major and stood very close examining the subordinate. The badly beaten officer could see, for the first time, the unsmiling features of the taut skinned face, as his benefactor turned and silently departed. A cold shiver caused the soldier to tremble as he collapsed back into the chair. He knew, in that instant, he had only traded one hell for another, as he recognized the look he had identified on the Colonel's face. He had seen that expression

many times before. It was the mask of death.
‘Aduh
,' he moaned inwardly.
‘Aduh, I will still surely die!'

 

Seda leaned back in his chair, gripping the report now almost illegible from continuous handling. His face was a mask but inside he was consumed with rage with each review of the document.

It was an interrogation report. The dark smears were dried blood. Unlike the Major that Seda had recruited from prison, this soldier had died, beaten to death for his part in the atrocities listed. He had been a member of a small group of Communists who had seized the opportunity within days of hearing reports that the central government had fallen. They had been trained in Java. They were of Javanese stock. They had opened their cache of Chinese weapons and swept through the Timorese villages executing their ill-prepared plans to seize control and impose themselves as caretakers until one of comrade Aidit's teams could arrive with support.

Hundreds died that day. Many men, many children and, caught in the crossfire, Seda's mother, left for dead by the animals who had burned the village.

He returned the document to his wallet. He could not permit what had happened to interfere with his plans. If anything, his resolve would now be stronger. It was essential, he recognized, that he be patient, regardless of how long it may take. He would use the Major as his instrument. The knuckles on his hands were white as the inner rage was contained.

He would have his revenge, one day.

The Javanese would pay...