I can still remember arriving at Adek. It had been a nightmarish trip: a train journey which had started in the afternoon and finished in the heat of the next day. Packed tightly together in compartments, we had been forced to sit on each other’s knees. The air was dank and claustrophobic. Children began vomiting. One woman became hysterical and a Japanese guard came in and slapped her several times on the face, hard. It was 1942, and the Japanese had just invaded Java. My mother and I had been rounded up with the other women and children and were being sent off to an internment camp.

For two long years Adek was our home and in that time we encountered many cruel Japanese soldiers. For the most part, their incomprehensible barking and sudden rage are now a distant memory for me. I vaguely remember one soldier who slapped my face because I didn’t bow when he passed on his bicycle, and another who gave some children sweets and then slapped their mother’s face as hard as he could because she did not bow but, instead, had the audacity to smile at him with gratitude. But there is only one soldier I can recall in intricate detail; one soldier I will never forget. His name was Takashi. And he was different from the rest. One day the latrines at the camp broke down and the sjouw ploeg, or “strong girls” – those aged between 15 and 25 and considered healthy enough to do the back-breaking jobs – were ordered to dig trenches to be used as an alternative.

For months we laboured in the trenches. It was hard work in the tropical sun, especially for girls who had never done manual work and were malnourished. Every day we worked until lunchtime while a Japanese soldier lay down in the shade of a tree, making sure we were not idle. Then one day our usual guard did not turn up. In his place came Takashi, small and insignificant. We didn’t take much notice of him at first, but went on working as usual. However, Takashi did not recline under the tree as his predecessor had. He went around to all of the trenches and seemed to be highly amused that we had to use rope ladders to get in and out of them. He tried to make conversation with us but, because we could not speak Japanese and his Malay was very broken, he did not get very far. At noon we had an hour off for lunch. All we had to eat was dry tapioca bread. It was a dirty grey colour with black spots on it and had the texture of rubber. Takashi also ate his lunch, alone under his tree. Then something extraordinary happened. He walked over to where we sat and handed me and another girl the rest of his lunch. It was real white bread with butter on it! “Terima kasih!” I exclaimed, thanking him. He waved his hand and sat down next to us. Then he barked something and gesticulated towards the hoe. Clearly he wanted to know what it was called. “Patjoel,” a girl replied. He smiled happily and repeated it.

And so began Takashi’s first lesson in Malay. He was a keen pupil and before we knew it our lunch hour had stretched to two hours. Needless to say, we couldn’t believe our good luck. The next day Takashi brought a bag of sweets and two packets of cigarettes. He proceeded to talk to us in sign language, waving his arms in all directions. Then he covered his mouth with his hand and pointed at the sweets and cigarettes. He shook his head until he must have been quite dizzy, then he jumped up and stood to attention. Next, he gave himself two hearty slaps on the cheeks. After this pantomime we all burst out laughing and Takashi shone with delight that his effort had been such a success. We all understood clearly that he did not want us to tell anybody about these gifts. From that time on, Takashi would always bring us a treat and allow us long breaks in our digging. We soon discovered that he had a marvellous memory and remembered all of the words we had taught him the previous day. He learned Malay fast and we, in turn, learned some Japanese words from him. Takashi told us that he came from a small village. He had a wife and a three-year-old daughter. He also asked us many questions and we told him about the history, mathematics and geography we had learned at school. He smiled and shook his head in admiration.

When one day Takashi did not appear and another guard took his place, we all missed him terribly. We didn’t miss just his fruit or sweets. What we missed was his gentle nature and eager smile. You see, without realising it, Takashi had taught us a valuable lesson. He had shown us that a person’s true worth is not what he or she thinks or feels, but how they use those thoughts and feelings to help others. Unlike his colleagues, there was no malice in Takashi, just kindness, curiosity and an inexhaustible sense of fun. He truly was a gentle Japanese soldier – and made me realise how wrong it is to dislike people because of race, colour or religion.

Tania Dyett, 79, lives in Wellington, New Zealand, with her husband David. She works as a yoga instructor and music teacher. She has two children, Linda, 52, and Kim, 48. Tania and her mother were held captive in three Japanese internment camps before finally being liberated by British soldiers in 1945.