My father was a young man working in Singapore during the Japanese occupation in 1941. Until 1945, he survived between road blocks, anti-communist informants and escaped the Sook-Ching massacre where ten thousand Chinese men were murdered. To rid of the bodies the Japanese dumped the corpses into the ocean. The water turned red.
When my father talked about this episode in his life there was no emotion. He told it more like a fantastical story. Many of his friends disappeared during this time, including his piano teacher’s husband. At ninety, only one memory consistently brings moisture to his eyes. He left his first love in Singapore.
