Stories 
Portrait of Francis Duncan Jacobsz. This photograph was in the possession of Duncan's daughter Klein and was made available by Bert Otterspeer.
Where the trail begins
The morning mist lay like a soft blanket over the green landscape of Pasoeroean, whilst the first rays of sunshine slid hesitantly over the horizon. The station was wrapped in silence, broken only by the distant crowing of a cockerel and the whispering rustle of palm leaves in the wind. Until a shrill steam whistle cleaved through the stillness.
A steamy mist rolled hissing across the platform. Iron groaned against iron as the locomotive thundered past. The sharp sound echoed against the weathered walls of the station. For many, this was the sound of progress—of new connections between villages and towns, of trade and hope. But for him it meant more. For him, this sound became the rhythm of his life. A life that would unfold along these rails. A fate that was engraved more deeply with every blow of the steel.
His world was then no larger than the comfort of a soft blanket and the warm sound of his mother's voice. But one day, in a time yet to come, he himself would travel over these rails. From one station to the next. From boy to man. From freedom to captivity. The rails would lead him from the sweet scent of birch and rose soap to the piercing stench of blood and corruption along the Burma Railway.
The whistle sounded again. This time as a farewell. A train glided away from Pasoeroean. Its wheels rattled rhythmically over the track—deeper into the interior of Java. The steel sang a song of promise and loss. And somewhere, beyond the horizon, another terminus awaited.
Between suitcases and cradles
The Jacobsz family home in Pasoeroean, whitewashed and surrounded by swaying palms, stood on a dusty road leading to the railway line. Here, where trains never stayed long and the waves eternally rewrote the coastline, the life of Francis Duncan Jacobsz (Doh) began on 20 August 1905.
He was one of the many children of Johan Hendrik Jacobsz and Wilhelmina Cornelia Cécilia de la Croix. With a railway official as his father, his childhood knew no fixed ground. The family lived out of suitcases, moving from station to station and each time calling a new place 'home'—until it was time to leave again.
But it was not only the constant moving that left its mark—loss also shaped the family. Of the eleven children, four died at a young age. Duncan learnt as a child that loss was no rarity, but an inescapable part of life.
A home full of boundaries
At home the reality of the colony was less visible, but never absent. Duncan grew up with indigenous servants who cooked, cleaned and looked after the children. A Javanese baboe with a soft voice and endless patience rocked Duncan to sleep with old Indonesian fairy tales. Javanese and Malay sounded in the house just as familiar as Dutch.
Yet that mingling did not mean there were no boundaries. On the contrary. The invisible lines between 'European', 'Indo' and 'native' also ran through their home, though they were subtler than on the street or at school. The baboe who rocked Duncan to sleep did so not out of maternal love, but because his father paid her wages.
Perhaps that is why he sought solace in what knew no difference: music, nature, silence. His violin was a companion in a life that never stood still. And just as often he would head out into the jungle, listening to the whistling of birds and the rushing of the wind through the trees. In nature he found an early freedom that existed nowhere else. A world without boundaries. Without hierarchy.
Duncan's parents Johan Hendrik Jacobsz and Wilhelmina Cornelia Cécilia de la Croix (c. 1920–1930). The photograph was in the possession of Duncan's daughter Meiske and was made available by Martin Boon.
The scent of craftsmanship
The transition from boy to man did not take place for Duncan in one dramatic moment. But in the gradual routine of work and responsibility. As a young man taking his first steps in the working world, his life became increasingly shaped by the scent of shampoo, colognes, and essential oils.
After his schooling, Duncan began his career as a commercial employee, a common step for Indo-European youngsters trying to secure a decent position in society. But his future did not lie in trade. Around 1926, in his early twenties, he found a job at N.V. Parfumerie- en Toiletzeepfabriek Georg Dralle—a prestigious German firm that had established itself in the Dutch East Indies. The factory, which produced luxury perfumed soap, was a thriving enterprise in a colony where European elegance and hygiene were held in high regard.
His first posting was Garoet—a cooler mountain town in the Preanger. In the mornings the air tingled with cool mist that slowly lifted between the tea fields. And in the factory that fresh mountain air mingled with the bitter prickling of Eau de Quinine and the soft drift of talcum powder—Duncan's first acquaintance with the world of scent and chemistry. He started as a simple factory worker, but his dedication and sharp mind did not go unnoticed.
From apprentice to master
In 1929 Duncan was transferred, along with his brother George Albertus Jacobsz, to Dralle's main establishment in Soerabaja. In the mornings, upon arriving at the factory, he would tie on his slightly oversized, light cotton work apron. The scent of alcohol and citrus oil slowly worked its way in—settling into his hands, his collar, his memory.
Duncan did not merely oversee production; he stirred, weighed and counted alongside the others. Colibri Eau de Cologne, Vinagre Keimtot, refreshing hair lotions—he knew every formula inside and out. He learnt to read scents like music. He could recognise an imbalance in a single sniff and knew precisely when one drop too many could ruin an entire batch. He perfected recipes drop by drop, until even the air in the laboratory became a symphony of lavender, lemon and lupin.
The most beloved product he worked on was the cooling birch hair water that brought relief on sultry days. A fresh scent, clear as morning light, that made hair shine and caused one's head to momentarily forget how warm it was in the tropics.
Duncan did not see himself as a cog in a system, but as a scent-smith. Someone who could give people something beautiful for a moment. Something soft, something lighter. It was not the approval of customers or managers that moved him most. It was the smiles of children. That was where his pride lay. That was where he found meaning.
Aerial photograph of N.V. Parfumerie- en Toiletzeepfabriek Georg Dralle in Soerabaja, circa 1935. Source: Leiden University Libraries (KITLV 43203).
The scent of freedom
At the factory the new stock of samples was already waiting. Small jars of rose soap, lavender cream and fragrant lotions that would never reach the shelves. Too small to sell, too many to throw away. Duncan thought that a waste. He nodded to the boys in dispatch and stacked the crates one by one onto the back seat of his Ford—more than he needed himself, but he knew precisely where they were going.
By the time he turned into his street, the neighbours already saw him coming. They raised their hands or smiled quietly; they knew precisely what time it was. Before he had even properly parked his car, the children came streaming over, barefoot, giggling, with their little hands outstretched. Duncan carefully lifted the rattling crate from the car and set it down on the ground. One by one the children were handed a bar of soap or a small bottle. Roses, lavender, jasmine—it smelt for a moment as though the tropical sun had given way to a field of flowers. Some unscrewed the cap immediately and curiously sniffed the scent. Others held the little jar as though it were a precious treasure. And Duncan? His smile said everything.
It was a life to be proud of—his work brought him not only financial stability, but also something he had long missed: a fixed place in society. For the first time he bore responsibility, was recognised and respected.
A marriage shrouded in smoke
Duncan was twenty-four years old when he married Alexandrien Frederique Westhoff (Rien) on 22 August 1929—a young Indo-European woman of sixteen. Their first child was already on the way. The marriage followed faster than perhaps ever intended. In Catholic families there was no hesitation in such cases: one married. No great love, but a dutiful beginning—as was fitting at that time.
The marriage took place in Soerabaja, the city Duncan had by now come to consider home. The stately houses of the European elite, the bustling markets where Javanese, Chinese and Arabs jostled for space, and the scent of spices and ripe tropical fruit mingling with the salty air of the harbour—it was a city of contrasts. And in that backdrop his family life began.
With the arrival of their first child, Ursula Renaldine Jacobsz, in January 1930, everything changed. From the moment he first held her, Duncan felt something strange awaken—a sense of vulnerability he had not known before, but also a deep pride that surprised him. Being a father proved a role that felt simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar. He held her carefully against him, hummed songs he had heard long ago and marvelled again and again at her small hands closing around his fingers.
But happiness proved fragile, as though it had never been destined for him from the outset. Barely four months after her birth, the house fell silent. Ursula was suddenly gone, most likely carried off by a tropical disease, as happened so often in the Indies: unexpectedly, quietly, inescapably. Where her voice should have sounded, only emptiness now reigned. Duncan, accustomed to the noise of machines and the rumbling rhythm of the factory, felt lost in the silence. He walked through rooms that suddenly seemed too large and too cold, searching for something to hold onto. He had always been a man who solved problems with his hands—but against death he was powerless.
Yet life did not give up. Angeline Amaly Jacobsz (Ans) was born on 10 January 1931, James Eugèn Jacobsz (Jim) on 10 February 1932, Cornelia Roswita Jacobsz (Klein) on 4 September 1934. With each new child the responsibility grew, and Duncan tried to adapt to the life of a father. His days were filled with work in the factory, his evenings with family life. But whenever the factory gates closed behind him and he left the refined scents behind, he felt the suffocating regularity of daily existence.
Deep within he remained the man who always yearned for something more than routine. The foothold he had once sought increasingly felt like a chain. However much recognition he received, the real breathing space was not to be found at home or in the factory, but in the speed of his motorbike and the silence of the untamed jungle. No perfume could drown out the smell of mud and sweat. Only there, where he had nothing to prove and no one to be, did he find his breathing returning to its own rhythm.
Left: Rien with Duncan's arm around her. Right: Rien's foster mother, Lucia Elisa Westhoff, with Ursula or Ans on her lap. In the middle sit presumably Duncan's sisters: Hermien Elisabeth Jacobsz (Mimi) and in the foreground Wilhelmina Hendrika Jacobsz (Niekke). The photograph was in the possession of Duncan's daughter Klein and was made available by Bert Otterspeer.
A life in fragments
It began with a whisper, a rumour that spread like a flame through the corridors of the factory. The name Dralle had until then been synonymous with quality and refinement, but in 1934 the perfume and soap factory came under fire. It was whispered that methyl alcohol was being used to evade excise duty, an accusation that cast a shadow over the company's carefully built reputation.
Duncan, by now a laboratory analyst, felt the tension in the air. The laboratories, normally filled with the scent of essential oils and floral extracts, now breathed unease and suspicion. Chemists and inspectors examined every mixing process, every bottle of perfumed water, in search of evidence of fraud. The workers looked over their shoulders, whispered in small groups, afraid of becoming entangled in a scandal that could cost them their livelihood.
When the truth came to light, it emerged that there had been no deliberate intent. During the blending of essential oils, methyl alcohol could form spontaneously, even without the use of denatured alcohol. It was a natural chemical process, not a conspiracy. For Duncan and his colleagues it was a eureka moment, a scientific discovery that exonerated them. But the shadow that had fallen over the factory did not simply retreat. The economic crisis that had spread from Europe and America into the colony made the situation all the more precarious. Raw material prices fell, profit margins came under pressure. Every rumour, every mistake could make the difference between keeping one's job and losing it. Dralle had suffered reputational damage, and although Duncan bore no direct blame, he felt the impact of it in his daily life.
And as if that were not enough, a further blow followed some years later. After the German invasion of the Netherlands on 10 May 1940, the soap factory, as former German property, was placed under the administration of the Dutch East Indies government. An official announcement appeared in the newspaper: Dralle would henceforth continue as a 'purely Dutch East Indies enterprise.' To the outside world, a reassurance. For Duncan it meant that his work would henceforth fall under the supervision of the colonial authority, in a climate increasingly shaped by war and mistrust.
Notice from the Soerabaijasch handelsblad of 20 May 1940 announcing that Dralle had been placed under Dutch East Indies administration.
He carried the tension from the factory home with him. But there, no rest awaited him. His marriage to Rien had turned into a struggle between obligation and desire. Just as the workers in the factory looked over their shoulders, so too did he look ever more frequently towards something outside his own life—something or someone else.
The other side of the street
Into this emptiness stepped Everine Juliana Rommers—the girl from across the street. She was sixteen, with an open smile and a look that held something Duncan had long missed—lightness, innocence, escape. What began as an innocent understanding grew into an affair that eventually came to light inevitably. In the summer of 1934 Everine became pregnant. When their son Duncan Fransis Jacobsz (Frans) was born on 16 April 1935, the truth could no longer be concealed.
Rien was furious. The break was final. Although she was four months pregnant with their last child, the divorce was irrevocably set in motion on 21 December 1935. Five months later she gave birth to Roelof François Jacobsz (Boy), the last child from her marriage to Duncan. But by that time everything was already lost.
As though the universe wished to make the destruction of his old life complete, fate struck again. On 28 December 1935 his mother, Wilhelmina Cornelia Cécilia de la Croix, passed away. Ten months later, on 17 October 1936, he lost his father, Johan Hendrik Jacobsz, as well.
His marriage was over. His parents were buried. His family had been torn apart. And his future was uncertain. Everything he had once known lay broken at his feet.
A home full of life, a heart full of silence
His first marriage was over, his parents were dead, his reputation in ruins. And yet life went on. On 16 April 1936 he married Everine, and together they began a new life in Sepandjang, a small village near Sidoardjo to the south of Soerabaja. Here they found a large house with an expansive garden.
His first marriage to Rien was supposed to have given him stability, but increasingly became a struggle—a battle between responsibility and freedom, between duty and desire. Rien was dutiful, sharply mindful of reputation, and adhered firmly to the norms of colonial society. She needed order, structure. A man who fulfilled his role, who came home at fixed times, who put his family above all else. Duncan tried to fit into that picture, but increasingly felt trapped. He loved his children, but the expectations weighing upon him felt like a straitjacket in which he could barely move.
There was no clear moment at which everything tipped, no conscious decision to cross a line. Perhaps it was a glance that lingered a moment too long. A conversation that felt lighter than home. A moment in which he forgot what was proper and what was not. Perhaps it was the youthful freedom that Everine radiated, the way she expected nothing from him except that he simply be who he was. Or perhaps it was mere chance, a confluence of circumstances that in another life would never have happened. Whatever it was, one day there was no way back.
Their relationship began in chaos, in guilt and shame, but in the aftermath of it he also found something that felt new: room to breathe.
The family of Duncan and Everine grew quickly. Silvia Magdalena Jacobsz (Meiske) was born on 19 September 1936, followed by Irene Beatrice Jacobsz (Iertje) on 28 November 1937, Egmond Wladimir Jacobsz (Eggie) on 3 November 1938, Marcella Rosalina Jacobsz (Marcel) on 30 March 1940 and Florence Virgine Jacobsz (Floortje) in 1941. Their house was never quiet. There was life, bustle, and a different atmosphere from what he had been accustomed to. No suffocating silences or unspoken reproaches here, but a more relaxed way of living together. Everine was not a woman who held him fast—she let him move, and perhaps that was precisely what he needed.
The children of Duncan and Everine, from left to right: Eggie, Iertje, Marcel, Meiske and Frans. The photograph was in the possession of Duncan's son Frans and was made available by Frank Victor Boon.
The rhythm of Sepandjang
The household ran on six Javanese servants, each with their own task. Kastawi, the young gardener, kept the expansive garden in perfect order, assisted by a helper who aided him with pruning and watering. In the kitchen a girl cooked, another did the washing. A third kept the house clean, and a fourth looked after the children. The house was a world unto itself, where everyone played a role and life ran like clockwork.
Every morning Duncan drove his Ford to work, a journey that took him through the dusty streets of Sepandjang to the factory in Soerabaja. But it was the moments upon returning home that made him laugh. The moment the car turned into the drive, Kastawi was already waiting. The instant Duncan slowed down, the young gardener jumped grinning onto the back of the car and let himself be carried along for a stretch, laughing at the swirling clouds of dust behind him. It was a small daily ritual, a game that kept something playful alive amidst the daily routine.
The large garden was a place of amusement and adventure. Here the children and guests could run free, among the flowering plants and tall trees in which a monkey or a monitor lizard was sometimes spotted. But it was the dogs that truly dominated the grounds—six sturdy beasts, trained for hunting and for guarding the house. When dusk fell, they instinctively moved to the edges of the compound, ears pricked, waiting for the sounds of the night. During the day they ran after the children or played in the shade of the veranda, a rough but loyal presence in the family.
His home was also open to others. During the long school holidays the house was fuller still. Boys from the Don Bosco orphanage came to stay, city children unaccustomed to country life. In the first days they were shy, ill at ease in the large house, but soon they were fishing in the river, chasing one another through the garden and playing boisterously with the dogs for a spot in the shade. The house filled with voices, with laughter, with the liveliness that Duncan was compelled to miss elsewhere.
It was precisely in that cheerful bustle that Duncan felt it gnawing at him—a quiet grief that never fully disappeared. His children from his first marriage were close by, yet out of reach. Their voices did not sound through the house; their faces were only memories that slowly faded. The distance was short, but the gulf between them seemed to grow with every passing day. He wanted to hold them, to hear them laugh, simply to know how they were—but it was not permitted.
And so he played the violin. Sometimes a second voice could be heard, that of his sister Hermien Elizabeth Jacobsz (Mimi), but usually he played alone, in the stillness of the evening. His favourite piece—Serenata Rimpianto Op. 6 No. 1 by Enrico Toselli—was a melancholy refrain that filled his silence when words fell short. Music offered him comfort, a place where time dissolved and memories were no longer painful. A brief escape from a life that moved between happiness and loss.
Francis Duncan Jacobsz with his little sister Hermien Elizabeth Jacobsz (c. 1920–1930). The photograph was in the possession of Duncan's daughter Meiske and was made available by Martin Boon.
Freedom on wheels
The smell of petrol and oil hung in the air as Duncan gripped the handlebars firmly. Beneath him the engine rumbled—not an explosion of speed, but an unyielding force. His head was covered only by a leather cap, his eyes hidden behind goggles with thick lenses—like a pilot, ready for whatever adventure might throw at him. Sufficient against dust and wind, but not against a fall.
His old Excelsior, a sturdy British single-cylinder, puttered faithfully through the Javanese landscape, hardened by muddy back roads and tropical rains. Starting it was not always without difficulty—the kickstarter could stubbornly kick back, and the damp morning weather sometimes made it temperamental. But once running, it was a dependable companion. No racing machine, but a motorbike that took him where he wanted to be.
On his AJS it felt different. That one ran smoother, accelerated more quickly, and took the steep inland gradients with ease. But speed was never the essence. These motorbikes were not there to escape, but to feel—to experience the landscape in every slow combustion stroke, like a rhythmic extension of his breathing.
Duncan often rode alone. But sometimes, in the early morning sun, he rode side by side with Ben van der Jacht—his loyal childhood friend from Soerabaja with whom he shared a quiet brotherhood. They shared the same hunger for adventure, the same drive to leave the confines of daily life behind.
On Sunday mornings, whilst the city still slept, they glided together along winding roads, the engines growling deeply beneath them. His wheels carved into the loose sand as he rode on beneath tall palm trees. They travelled through mountains, past volcanoes and plantations, without a fixed destination. Only the horizon determined the direction.
The dust from the unpaved roads swirled up in their wake and dissolved in the blazing sun. The wind in their faces, the smell of damp earth and warm petrol fumes around them—this was freedom. Not a flight towards speed, but a journey without hurry. They rode not to arrive somewhere, but to be nowhere for a while.
Duncan sits at the front of his motorbike, proud and resolute. Behind him Everine, his hunting rifle in her hand. Beside them his companion with his wife. The photograph was in the possession of Duncan's son Frans and was made available by Frank Victor Boon.
A pause in the shade
When the sun climbed higher and the heat settled on their shoulders like an invisible weight, they sought shelter under the broad canopy of a waringin tree. There, in the shade, they sank down onto the woven roots and produced a fresh durian—plucked straight from nature. With their penknives they cut open the spiny skin, revealing the creamy, golden-yellow flesh and ate with the voracity of men who fully embraced the moment.
The smell—heavy, sweet and almost intoxicating—mingled with the earthy aroma of the jungle and the dry dust that lingered above the path in the midday sun. In the city it would be banned: hotels, taxis and trains were plastered with 'prohibited' signs. But here, under the waringin, it belonged. For Duncan and Ben it was no stench, but a promise—of freedom, of simplicity, of the land itself.
It was one of those simple pleasures of tropical existence: the durian on the tongue, the coolness of the shade, and the prospect of a long ride over winding sandy roads. Without haste. Without destination. Only the road ahead of them, and the unknown bending behind every curve.
Left: Duncan's companion Ben with his wife. Right: Duncan with Everine, enjoying durian together. The photograph was in the possession of Duncan's son Frans and was made available by Frank Victor Boon.
The jungle whispers
The freedom Duncan sought was not found on wheels alone. His adventurous spirit drove him further, away from the roads, deeper into the wilderness. Where the paths ended and only the jungle remained, he felt as much at home as on his motorbike—perhaps even more so. The smell of petrol gave way to damp earth and wet leaves, the roar of the engine to the whistling of birds and the rustling in the undergrowth.
With his Mauser hunting rifle in hand he ventured into the jungle—eyes sharp, breathing calm. Hunting was not for him a sport, but a way of becoming one with nature. He knew the tracks of the animals, knew when they moved and how they travelled—skills he had learnt as a boy.
In the belly of the river
His reputation as a hunter spread quickly. When a crocodile came too close to the kampong, the villagers turned to him. The river, a source of life and danger alike, claimed victims regularly. Women washed their clothes along the bank, children played in the water—until a sudden attack put the community on edge once more. Every hunt meant a measure of safety.
The hunt began when the sun disappeared behind the trees and dusk settled over the river. During the day the crocodiles were too alert, too well camouflaged in the murky water. At nightfall Duncan loaded his carbine, jumped behind the wheel of his Ford and drove with Everine and their faithful household servant Kastawi to the river. Everine sat in the front, beside Duncan. Kastawi sat behind on the luggage rack, as was customary—a position that said little about his loyalty, but much about how the world was ordered in those days.
Once arrived at the kampong, Duncan hired a prauw, a narrow wooden boat that rocked gently on the water. Two oarsmen, experienced fishermen from the kampong, took their places and gazed silently at the river. Their bare feet rested on the damp wood, their hands moving with control over the oars. They waited in silence, their eyes fixed on the water, until Duncan gave them the signal to depart.
Everine sat diagonally behind him with a powerful torch in her hands. The prauw glided soundlessly forward. Duncan's heart pounded in his chest, his fingers gripped the cool metal of the Mauser. The darkness was impenetrable, broken only occasionally by the searching beam of light. He listened—as only a hunter can.
The forest had a language, and Duncan understood every word. A sudden silence between the branches? The forest was holding its breath—a predator was near. A quick, dry vibration in the undergrowth? Small prey animals taking flight, driven by something larger. A soft thud in the distance? A deer carefully making its way through the leaves, alert but not alarmed.
When he was still and held his breath, he heard more than just sounds—he felt the rhythm of the forest. The jungle was never quiet. A ceaseless cacophony of cicadas and cricket swarms washed like breathing through the canopy, swelling and fading in a hypnotic rhythm.
From the trees suddenly came the sharp sound of a tjitjak, a small house gecko that seemed to be calling its own name: "tjik-tjik-tjik!" Higher in the canopy a larger tokeh called with its distinctive cry—short, shrill, almost laughing: "to-kéh, to-kéh!"
The dull splash of a water monitor broke the rhythm, followed by the rustling of leaves as it made its way through the reeds. And further away came the low rumble of a crocodile—not a scream, not a snarl, but a slow, vibrating sound that not only made the air tremble but resonated deep in the chest.
Everine directed the torch forward, and then—two fiery coals broke through the darkness. They were the eyes of a crocodile. Fierce and motionless, just above the surface of the water.
The oarsmen held their breath. Duncan remained still, his eyes fixed on the beast. One second, two seconds—his breathing slowed, his finger found the trigger.
A shot cut through the night. The water carried the echo with it.
The oarsmen sprang into action immediately. A lasso was thrown around the head of the animal before it could disappear into the muddy depths. The carcass was slowly dragged to the bank, where it was left until the hunt was over.
A spectacle on the bank
By first light they gathered their catch. The Javanese villagers from the nearby kampong had assembled along the bank—clad in colourful sarongs and simple cotton shirts. Children stood barefoot in the sand, their eyes wide with wonder. Older men nodded approvingly, whilst a few women whispered and pointed at the row of dead crocodiles.
When Duncan and Kastawi hoisted the beasts into the car, there was laughter and pointing. Curious boys tried cautiously to touch the scaly tail of a crocodile, whilst an old man murmured a brief prayer, as though wishing to pay his respects to the sacrifice.
The drive through the village always drew onlookers. The slain crocodiles lay lashed to the luggage rack, their jaws still half open as though they might come back to life at any moment. Young and old stopped their work and stared after the car, whilst clouds of dust rose up behind it.
The craft after the hunt
Once home, the real skilled work began. The sale of the hides brought in more than the hunt itself. In uncertain times, when salaries stagnated and the depression had not left the colony untouched, it was a welcome additional income. Duncan carefully cut the skin away from the flesh, a task that required precision. A sharp smell hung in the air—metallic blood, mingled with salt and sweat. Kastawi helped him stretch the skin over a wooden frame, so it would not shrink as it dried.
With a sharp knife Duncan scraped away the excess fat and tissue. The rough texture of the scales felt cool beneath his fingers, the skin gleaming and firm. A mixture of salt and alum was then used to preserve the leather and prevent it from spoiling.
The crocodile skins were hung in the back garden, flapping in the breeze like a strange, macabre flag. The sun slowly worked its way into the leather. The air was heavy with the penetrating smell of damp skin, salt and the sickly odour of decay. Once the skins were sufficiently dried, Duncan sold them to the hunting house "NIMROD", where they would be processed into luxury crocodile leather.
Duncan poses proudly with one of his hunting trophies: a crocodile. The photograph was in the possession of Duncan's son Frans and was made available by Frank Victor Boon.
When the silence broke
The days in Sepanjang seemed peaceful, but beneath the surface the threat was growing. The house bathed in sunshine, the children played in the garden, and Duncan occupied himself with his work, the hunting and the music. In the evenings he settled into his favourite chair, drew his violin from its case and let melancholic notes drift through the gallery. His fingers found the strings effortlessly. But beyond those four walls, the world was in motion.
It began with rumours—whispers at the market, in the factory, wherever people gathered. A herb seller warned his customers in hushed tones that Japanese troops had already landed on Sumatra. In the factory there were murmurs that the garrison at Tarakan had been destroyed. At the coffee houses, where conversations grew quieter the moment a stranger entered, the same question was heard: "How much longer?" Japan, which had been expanding its military power for years, was acting ever more aggressively in the region. Reports of the fall of Indochina and the American oil blockade against Japan were doing the rounds. In Batavia the colonial government tried to calm fears, but Duncan knew better. He saw the tension in the faces of European administrative officials, the growing nervousness, and the radicalisation of nationalist groups.
The colonial society in which he had grown up was beginning to waver. Indo-Europeans increasingly felt themselves caught between the Dutch elite and the indigenous population. Where he had once moved through the streets of Soerabaja without concern, he now caught hostile glances. For the Dutch and Indo-Europeans the Japanese came as enemies, but many in the indigenous population saw them as liberators from Dutch colonialism.
Behind the scenes the colonial administration was preparing for war. There was talk of evacuations, stockpiling food supplies, and compulsory military service for European and Indo-European men. Duncan had no say over his fate. As an Indo-European he was compulsorily mobilised for the Landstorm—the last line of defence against the Japanese. Meanwhile the local police went from house to house, forcing people to surrender firearms and ammunition. Duncan stood with his old hunting rifle in his hands—his most faithful companion. Now he had to hand it over, not knowing whether he would ever feel it in his hands again.
When home is home no longer
In the run-up to the war Duncan and Everine had already taken precautions. With a heavy heart his wife had hidden nearly all her jewellery in a tin and buried it in the garden. Clothes and medicines had been tied into small bundles, ready to take. But they could not truly be ready for what was to come.
Dusk fell, and a heavy silence settled over Sepanjang. Normally this would be the hour when the jungle came to life—crickets striking up their songs, birds preparing for the night. But now there was nothing. No rustling leaves, no gentle sighing of wind through the palms. Even the dogs, normally alert, lay frozen in the shadows. Something was coming. Something the very natural world seemed to sense. And then came the whispering. At first soft, like a rumour, carried on the wind. But soon like a storm raging through the streets: the Japanese were coming.
Outside there was shouting—short, sharp, in a language they did not understand. Muffled footsteps approached along the sandy path, coming ever closer. The dogs pricked their ears—alert to the approaching threat. When the shadows became visible, Everine's heart pounded in her chest. An icy wave of panic swept over her. They were Japanese soldiers. Her hand closed firmly around the children, their bodies trembling against hers. Duncan cast her a quick glance—no words were needed. There was no time to hesitate. He felt the adrenaline flood his muscles and knew what had to be done.
Duncan gave a short, sharp whistle. Before the sound had faded, the hunting dogs shot into the darkness. With flattened ears, bared teeth and muscles trembling with restrained force they charged at the Japanese soldiers. But unlike the game they were accustomed to hunting, their prey this time shot back—hard, fast and mercilessly.
Every shot forced a raw cry from the darkness. A dog was slammed to the ground at full speed, its body twitching convulsively on the bloodied earth. Another leapt at a soldier, teeth deep in flesh, but a rifle shot tore open its flank. The last dog crawled forward, its chest scraping along the ground, one leg dragging uselessly behind it. From its mouth came short, shrill cries—high, raw, broken.
Their sacrifice gave the family the seconds they needed. Duncan rushed to the hallway, grabbed a rope and hastily tied it to an old travelling trunk. Everine pulled the children along with her—their breathing heavy, their feet unsteady. They ran, stumbled, almost fell—but they could not stop. Their home, once a refuge, was now being overrun by intruders. The Japanese stormed inside, their shadows twisting across the walls—but then. For a fraction of a second the soldiers paused, transfixed by the sinister gleam of the crocodile skins on the wall—bizarre patterns moving in the flickering light. That stolen breath was all the family needed.
Duncan gripped the rope more firmly and pressed on. Behind him sat the older children, their small arms wrapped around one another as they were dragged through the muddy rice fields. The water squelched beneath his feet, his muscles burned with every step. The trunk scraped over the narrow, slippery dykes, banging against the emerging rice plants, but he could not slow down.
Beside him Everine moved swiftly forward, her face pale with exertion. In her arms she carried the youngest children, Marcel and Floortje—their heads pressed against her shoulders, too small to understand, but heavy with fear and exhaustion.
Together they fled into the night.
The fall of Soerabaja
When morning broke, they reached the city. In Soerabaja they were taken in by Everine's father, grandfather Rommers. He had arranged a house for them in the Irisstraat—an empty property belonging to a Dutch family that had fled headlong to Australia. The furniture was still there, forgotten and dusty. The air in the rooms carried the scent of the past. It was a refuge, but not a home.
The threat remained omnipresent. Day and night bombardments thundered through the city. Low-flying Japanese aircraft dropped their loads on factories, docks and military targets. At every air-raid alarm they ducked for cover, breath held, waiting for the danger to pass—if it passed.
Duncan was handed an old rifle and sent with a group of fellow unfortunates to a makeshift defensive position. The battle was hopeless. The Japanese were better trained, better armed, and their advance seemed unstoppable.
On 9 March 1942 the Royal Netherlands East Indies Army surrendered. There was no choice. The orders came: weapons down. The streets filled with smoke, with shouting, with eyes full of despair. Soldiers lowered their rifles—faces marked by exhaustion, defeat, disbelief. The battle was fought. And lost. Duncan knew: it was over.
Just one day after the surrender, on 10 March, Duncan was arrested by the Japanese. Directly opposite his new home, on the grounds of the Jaarmarkt, he was gathered together with hundreds of others.
Japanese internment card of Francis Duncan Jacobsz. Source: National Archives The Hague (NL-HaNA_2.10.50.03_434_0473s).
The last glance of his children
When he looked up, he saw them—small silhouettes against the pale morning light. Frans, Meiske and Iertje stood at the attic window, their little hands clasped around the window ledge, searching for their father. Their faces lit up when they saw him. They waved, elated—as if papa might step back inside at any moment. As if nothing were wrong. As if this were not a farewell.
Duncan swallowed. He felt his heart contract at that innocent gesture—their small arms waving with trust, with love. Everything in him wanted to look away, to preserve this image as it was. But his gaze remained caught in that of his children. He raised his hand. A wave back. Slower, heavier. A silent goodbye.
And then everything changed.
Their innocent faces froze—confusion, shock. The wave stopped, their eyes wide and motionless.
The butt of a rifle struck his back, mercilessly. He gasped for breath, his knees buckling beneath him. Before he reached the ground, the second blow followed—harder, lower. He fell, but they did not stop. A rain of blows descended upon him. Rifle butts, boots, hands that did not think but merely struck.
Dust filled his mouth. The world spun. Pain burned in his ribs, his shoulder, his neck. His body curled in on itself, but nowhere did he find protection. The Japanese soldiers roared with laughter, as though he were not a man but an animal to be chastised at will.
When the violence finally ceased, he lay there—his face half pressed into the earth, breathless, his entire body throbbing with pain. But his thoughts did not wander to his injuries. They lingered at the window.
He flinched. But something in him forced him to move. With agonising precision he turned himself over—as though with every millimetre he were trying to reach back for what he had just seen. His ribs screamed, his lungs burned, but his eyes searched. Searched for that one image. Searched for them.
But the window was empty.
Where fate falls silent
The days in the camp in Soerabaja faded into a drudge of hunger, heat and uncertainty. Duncan did not know how long he would remain there, nor what awaited him. The guards did not speak, gave no indications. Rumours circulated about transports, but nobody knew precisely where to. Each morning names were called out, followed by the rattling of boots and the clattering of rifle butts against iron gates. Whoever was on the list, disappeared. Sometimes he later heard whispered stories about ships, about unknown destinations, about men who vanished into thin air.
The order was given, and the prisoners were roughly hauled to their feet. Duncan felt the chafing grip of a soldier around his arm, the rough shove in his back. The sun burned on his skin, the dust clung to his sweaty neck. Around him moved the shadows of fellow prisoners, their faces hollow, their steps heavy. The gate opened, and before them stood a row of lorries with open flatbeds. The sound of roaring engines made the ground tremble.
They were jolted along dusty roads, the heat suffocating, the noise of the engines deafening. The air was drenched with the smell of oil and fear. At every bump in the road the prisoners were pressed against one another, some whispering prayers, others silent. When the lorries finally stopped, they were unloaded and lined up in rows. The sun stood high in the sky, and Duncan felt the sweat sliding down his back.
But the journey was not yet over. Under guard they were led to the harbour, where a rusty cargo vessel lay at the quayside. The ship, once built for goods, was now a floating prison. The prisoners were divided into groups and driven aboard over a narrow gangplank. The holds were dark and cramped, saturated with the smell of oil and sweat. Through a small porthole Duncan could just make out the sun glittering on the waters of the Strait of Madura—a border that was carrying him further from home.
The crossing was short, but felt endless. The engine droned heavily, the metal hull creaked with every wave. Some prisoners stared silently at the ship's wall, others kept their eyes closed, as though wishing themselves elsewhere. The heat was suffocating, the salt water beat against the bow, and above them gulls shrieked, indifferent to the fate of the men below.
When they stumbled ashore, their legs felt unsteady, as though the ground still followed the motion of the sea. The air was heavy with salt, oil and exhaust fumes, mingled with the sharp stench of sweat and the stale smell of wet cloth and rusting metal. Flies buzzed around piles of refuse, whilst in the distance a shout was abruptly cut off—a sound lost in the oppressive heat of the camp. Before them, concealed behind a row of trees, stood the watchtowers and barbed-wire fences of their new prison. Soldiers gestured for them to keep moving. Here, on Madura, they were counted again, sorted again, reduced once more to nothing more than a number on a list. Here he would wait again, hope again, without knowing what the next day would bring.
Never
One afternoon the usual silence of the camp was broken. At first softly, almost imperceptibly, but soon the murmuring at the fence grew. Prisoners raised their heads, searching for the source of the excitement. Duncan pricked his ears, his heart skipping a beat. There was something—or someone—that did not belong to the everyday rhythms of captivity.
Between the silhouettes of the sentries a familiar face appeared. Everine. She had hired a prauw to cross the Strait of Madura, disregarding the risks, simply to see him one last time. Her eyes glistened, her hands trembled as she gripped the metal grille. They exchanged words, whispering, hastily, as though every second were a theft from the enemy. "Duncan, hold on," said Everine, her voice trembling but resolute. "Whatever happens, do not forget us." Duncan clasped his hands around the bars. "Never," he whispered. What exactly they said faded with time. But the emotion remained. Their fingers slipped from the metal as though they had to let go of each other from a dream.
His last station
The air was stifling. A nauseating smell of oil, rust and human excrement drifted in the heat. Duncan heard shouting, orders in a language he did not understand, and the frightened whispering of men around him. Suddenly he was shoved forward, feet slipping on the wet deck.
Iron edges cut into his palms as he was ordered below. The space was pitch black. The heat struck him in the face, heavy and inescapable. The air was stale, permeated with urine and vomit. Bodies contorted into strange angles, seeking a place to breathe. Nobody said a word.
Duncan was swallowed by the darkness. A floating prison, a steel coffin, that would carry him from Madura to Singapore. The only breath of air came when the hatches were briefly opened. Men stretched their faces towards the sun, as though afraid they might never see daylight again.
Changi
On 17 January 1943 Duncan arrived in Changi, Singapore. They were driven from the hold like cattle—blinded, dazed, after days in the dark. Japanese guards stood motionless along the side—boots polished, rifles gleaming. Their uniforms crisp, their expressions blank. They were the opposite of the men who stood before them: emaciated, battered.
This was Changi. There was no order. Only arbitrary rule. Guards struck without reason, screamed without warning. Executions were quiet, sometimes even without explanation—as though a name on a list sufficed to make someone disappear.
Food was scarce: a handful of rice teeming with maggots, a soup as thin as rainwater. Disease spread like a thought: quickly, unstoppably, suffocatingly. Body lice, dysentery, tropical ulcers—they had no names any more. Only pain.
Some were tied to poles for hours, left to the sun until their shadow disappeared. When they collapsed, further punishment followed. Others were made to kneel on sharp stones, motionless, until their legs stiffened and their spine cracked under the weight of the hours.
Yet here and there was a spark of resistance—a diary on toilet paper, a whispered joke, an improvised theatrical performance at the back of a barrack. Signs of hope, small and fragile. But most kept silent. Because even words died there.
The Burma Railway
Ten days later, on 27 January 1943, he was transported again—this time on wheels. In a wooden goods wagon without windows, without space, Duncan was pressed together with dozens of others: body against body, sweat against skin, breath shared in an air that grew ever heavier. The heat closed around his throat like a fist.
The train set off. The locomotive sighed at every jolt, the wheels hammered relentlessly over the rails—a rhythmic verdict that kept beating, like a clock without mercy. Every blow drove him further from who he had once been. There was no view, no direction, no time—only the endless rails beneath them.
When the wheels finally came to rest, he had not arrived at a destination—but at the beginning of something worse than everything that had come before. At Nong Pladuk began what the world would later call the Burma Railway—a serpent of steel winding through the jungle, devouring everything in its path.
In the first days Duncan still felt hunger. In the first weeks he still felt pain. After that it disappeared, as though his body had forgotten what it had once known. His hands were numbed into tools—rough, feelingless, blind. His back lay open from bamboo whips, his shoulders chafed against the rough trunks of the sleepers he was forced to carry. He hacked, dragged, bore—without beginning, without end. His body worked, his mind fled.
One name among thousands: Francis Duncan Jacobsz, listed on the camp register of Thailand POW Branch Camp No. IV. Source: The National Archives (UK).
At the edge of death
In November 1943 malaria struck—mercilessly, with iron claws. His bones rattled like a train leaving the rails, his skin simultaneously burning hot and ice cold. Fever chills washed through his body as he fought against the paralysis that made his limbs heavy and strange, as though they no longer belonged to him. He shivered, but the sweat poured from him—clammy, sour, saturated with the smell of fear.
Illness meant weakness. And weakness meant danger. The guards tolerated no man who could not work; a burden was discarded, dead or alive. Yet he forced himself to remain upright, staggering, balancing on the edge between survival and disappearance. For days he clung to the rhythm of forced labour, until his body ultimately betrayed him. On 7 November he was taken—more dragged than walking—to the improvised field hospital in Kanchanaburi.
Hospital. The word alone was a lie. There was nothing sterile, nothing that suggested care or healing. Only stench, flies, blood and silence. Bodies lay like brittle twigs beside one another, one still breathing, the next no longer. Flies swarmed over festering wounds, their buzzing mingled with the hoarse groaning of the dying. The floor was hard and strewn with bloodied straw, a place where hope died as quickly as the men who lay there.
Yet he clung to the breath in his lungs. Something kept him here. An instinct, a memory, a promise he had made himself—though he no longer quite remembered which one. On 23 November he was transferred to the newly established base hospital. There he fought, among the rows of the living and the dead, to find something that resembled life. And when he had recovered sufficiently, he was sent back to Camp 2 in Nong Pladuk.
He no longer had the strength to carry sleepers, but his hands were still strong enough to load and unload wagons. Day after day he dragged himself across the platforms, whilst locomotives belched thick clouds of smoke. The work was less gruelling, but the discipline remained merciless. Guards struck without reason, without warning—simply because they could. Hunger was a constant companion, a bottomless crater in his stomach that was never filled. His ribs protruded like railway sleepers, sharp and unrelenting.
Sometimes, as he hoisted sacks of rice from a wagon, he felt the rough jute against his hands and was reminded of the sick bay. A month ago he had thought he would never lift again. Every breath had then been a struggle. Now he was working again. Still a prisoner. But alive.
Every day he saw men die from exhaustion, mistreatment, disease. Eyes that went blank, bodies that remained motionless, slowly absorbed by the mud beneath them. Death was a certainty, an elongated shadow that lurked in every movement. But like the train that blew its smoke over the rails, Duncan was driven by something he himself barely understood. Something stronger than the pain, the hunger, and the death that pervaded everything around him. Something that told him he would one day return home.
Kui Yae
In mid-1944 he was moved again, deeper into the interior towards Burma. At 190 kilometres from Nong Pladuk, in the camp of Kui Yae, the next phase of his captivity began. The endless days were filled with heavy labour on the rails and bridges—the same rails he had seen grow sleeper by sleeper. Here there was no beginning and no end. Only a railway line built on the blood and bones of those who died for it.
But the work always went on. The trains had to keep running. And so he worked. As he had always done. His hands grew rough, his muscles stiff, his body thinner. Hunger gnawed like a termite at his ribs. But he held on. Until the war itself cracked the routine.
On 8 December 1944 a deep, droning hum cut through the air, low and swelling, like a storm about to break loose. Duncan looked up and saw specks in the distance, approaching rapidly like birds of prey in search of quarry. The air shivered with tension, the earth trembled beneath his feet.
Then came the blow.
A wall of fire tore through the camp as a train, heavily laden with weapons and supplies, was struck. The wagons rose like grotesque marionettes—ripped apart by the force of the impact. Wooden beams splintered like fractured ribs, metal fragments flew with a sickening screech through the air. A wall of smoke rose above the rails.
For the first time in years he felt something he had almost forgotten: hope. Perhaps this hell would not last for ever. Perhaps there would come a day when the war would turn, when the locomotives that had driven them towards death would grind to a halt for good.
But for Duncan that day came too late.
The hope that had flickered for a moment was extinguished when the enemy he could not evade settled once more into his body. The malaria, lurking like a predator, struck again. His body was too weak for yet another battle. The fever flared up, biting and fastening like a crocodile dragging its prey underwater. He fought, but it was not a battle he could win.
The world around him faded.
The laughter of his children drifted through his mind, like the wind through the rice fields of Sepandjang. Ans's small hands, warm and sticky in his. Meiske's first, uncertain steps on the veranda—his arms outstretched to catch her. Kastawi, grinning, ready to jump on the back of the car the moment he slowed down. He smelt the fresh scent of wet earth after a rainfall, the sweet aroma of rice fields stretching to the horizon.
But the horizon disappeared.
The memories, once vivid and tangible, began to dissolve in the heat of the fever. The rice fields gave way to the sweltering air of the camp. The wooden veranda dissolved into the hard, blood-soaked ground of Kui Yae. He saw himself one last time on his motorbike, the wind in his face, freedom so close he could almost touch it. But now there was no wind. No road. No freedom.
His breathing became irregular, shallow—like a locomotive puffing through its final metres. He tried to hold on. To the scent of birch soap. To the trembling sound of his violin. To the soft weight of his children in his arms after a long day of play. But the fever drew them away. The sounds died out. Only the silence remained.
On 29 December 1944 he fell into a delirium. His thoughts were a fog, alternately filled with voices from the past and the endless pain of the present.
On 2 January 1945 his body gave up. No music. No scent of home. No voices of his children. Only the silence.
A life that began with the whistle of a locomotive ended alongside a rail he had laid with his own hands.
