I’m clearing things out and waiting to move to another house and it’s a jittery time for there are delays and dramas, so I cannot write anything coherent. On the other hand I can’t do anything practical till things clarify. Meanwhile I discovered this photo whilst gathering old papers together and deciding what to throw away.
When I was describing the man who my mother told me was my father, (see How I came to be born Part 2), I compared him to Rudolph Valentino but in a contest of smouldering stares he could have out-brooded Valentino himself as my photo shows. He was six foot seven.
Compare this photo of him at age 28 with mine in the previous post aged 13. Can you see the resemblance? Of course not! There is none. This did not stop me from believing he was my father till 1987, when Margery (who appears in Beach Party) told me the truth.
What was this Dutchman, Jan Jacobus, doing in Shanghai in 1931? I don’t know. He was an international man of mystery, even after my mother snapped him up as her photogenic husband. On my birth certificate (which has also resurfaced after being lost for years, in the turmoil of clearing old drawers) his occupation is given as “merchant”. Merchant of what? I was never told.
As a child, when my mother told me he went missing in the war, probably killed by the Japanese forces in Indonesia – a story which eventually convinced the Netherlands Government enough to give her a widow’s pension – I used to have a fantasy that he had used the war as an excuse to run away from her, and was still in Djakarta or Shanghai, having changed his name.
Even his sister thought he was my father, for I stayed with her several months when I was five and again when I was nineteen in the summer holidays.
If he were alive he would be 104, and why should I go looking for him anyhow? He was not my father.
a wayfarer’s notes 
hah! you sound like a teenager in an iranian movie!
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Oh, please recommend to me an Iranian movie, especially one in which there is a teenager like what I sound like!
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I was named for a pilot who died in WW2, not the man who raised me partialy and who claims to be my father today. The mystery has been imposed, those who know won't tell. Now, most are dead anyway, time is past for that, I don't spend any time on it, but it is a mystery. I was raised by others and myself anyway, nothing to do with any real 'parent' types so what is the difference. I can only know myself by now and tomorrow, there is no solid yesterday, or conscious yesterday at any rate. As it should be I guess. All very confused, as you seem yourself about it all.
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Sorry to sound negative Vincent, but this 'family' side of my personal being is not conducive to well-being and is questionable due to lots of coverups and such, I really gave up trying to sort it out. I didn't mean your work sounded confused, it does not, you do remarkable well at sorting yours out, I am envious to some degree. I think it would be another 5-10 years before I will be able to begin to do what you have done regarding this kind of information. At present I would have much difficulty putting it all in a neutral or good light. My apologies for sounding-off so negatively.
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i will try and find the one i saw. it was long time back. my chief reporter showed me that one in my previous organisation. i will contact him and let you know.
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Jim it does not sound negative. These things are important. Even if we never knew our parents or our substitute parents, we yearn for some kind of roots and to have a sense of identity.
When I discovered my real biological father I rather threw myself at the poor man, who was only 18 when he begat me. He'd done his best and even offered to marry my mother. Now I leave him alone and I don't even know if he is still alive.
Yes, it takes time to forgive our parents and ourselves for the past.
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Thanks Ghetu I will wait for information re the Iranian film.
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