About 80 years ago, Indonesia was still colonized by the Dutch, as it was for 350 years. Although the Netherlands was a small kingdom, they outsmarted bigger countries like Indonesia, and took everything from Indonesia for their seafaring enterprises. The Dutch didn’t educate Indonesians, or build the country, like the British did whenever they invaded a new territory. They left Indonesians fighting each other till death instead. During World War II, my father told me the Japanese invasion was way tougher and more brutal than the Dutch. It was like escaping from a tiger’s jaws only to enter a crocodile’s mouth. He had just turned six years old at that time.

On one beautiful sunny day, my father and his friends were playing hide–and–seek outside. Then one of his friends suggested playing cops and robbers. They all agreed, and they voted for my father to be a cop. “Okay, I’ll go get my gun in the house. My father bought it for me yesterday,” he said. “Your father bought you a gun? Can we see it?” his friends shouted at once. So he flew into the house, and his friends cheered, “gun, gun, gun,” as he emerged with the gun in his hand. These kids were having a really good day like never before, but little did they know it would soon become a nightmare.

Someone had heard about the gun and had contacted the Japanese base nearby. Hearing the news from a neighbor that bad things might happen, my grandmother threw the gun away in an abandoned garden. The next day, at about six o’clock in the morning, a loud banging was heard at the door. It continued—bang, bang, bang—and “Open the door!” a voice demanded. My grandmother opened the door with trembling hands. One of the several Japanese soldiers grabbed her by the neck at gunpoint, shouting, “Where’s the gun?” “Sorry, officer. We’ve never owned one,” she replied. “Your neighbor told us about it, so stop lying! I’ll blow your face off and kill all of your family,” he shouted, and pointed his gun in her face. My father and his father jumped out of bed to investigate what all the shouting was about, but before they said a word, the other Japanese soldiers pointed their guns at them. “Don’t move! Where is the gun?” they demanded to know.

My grandpa’s face turned as white as a mountaintop. With a gun pointed at his head, he begged, “Please, officer. We never had it.” But at six years old, my father told them, “I had a gun, but my mother threw it away last night.” At this point, they were about to kill my grandmother for lying, but the higher–ranking officer came forward, asking, “Where did she throw it?” “Over there,” said my father, pointing in a certain direction. “You have 20 minutes to find it, or you will all end up dead,” screamed the officer. One of the Japanese soldiers followed him to find it, while the others ransacked the house to find out if anything else was hidden. My father pulled at the grass, taller than him, to find the gun, while the restless Japanese yelled, “Hurry up, find it, or you’re all dead.” With a little luck, my father found it six minutes before the deadline. They hurried back to their commander to show him the gun. Although my grandparents were still on their knees at gunpoint, they were happy to see their son come back in one piece.

The commander came face–to–face with the six year old, “Your father calls this piece of plastic a gun?” he asked. “Yes, sir, my father bought it for me yesterday for my birthday,” he answered. “Ha, ha, ha. Happy Birthday. Here, you can have it.” He handed back my father’s toy gun, and they all sang the Happy Birthday song for him. Before they left, the Japanese commander said, “No real gun, or you’ll all go to jail!”

For the rest of his childhood, my father never touched a toy gun again. The nightmare stayed in his mind forever. He passed away long ago, but his priceless toy gun story always reminded me to stay away from guns. And I can’t imagine what the Japanese would have done if he had never found it in time that day. Perhaps I wouldn’t be here to tell this story. So, let me tell you, at every gunpoint situation, there is an unhealed fear and nightmare. Please! Everyone put your guns down!

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Born in Toraja, Indonesia, Marthen Bone is now 48 years old. He arrived in the United States in March 1998. He writes, “I like soccer, spending time with my son, cooking, swimming, and skateboarding.” A student at the Queens Public Library’s Elmhurst Adult Learning Center, his writing teacher is James McMenamin, and the center manager is Michelle Johnston. He was also published in LR16 and was featured in the Author Spotlight video.