“I think you had better study these papers as quickly as possible. You have to be able to answer any inquiries concerning your work from anybody who has dealings with these matters, that is to say, everybody who has permission to enter these offices, except of course the attendants and so on.”
“Very well, Monsieur.”
“How is Madame? Is she settled in now and happy here in Buitenzorg?”
“Of course, Monsieur, providing she does not think of our canceled holiday in Europe.”
“Yes, a great pity. But it was inevitable. I was upset too. But there is so much work to do, and it all has to be taken care of quickly.”
As soon as he left, I opened the packet. I left the door open. There was no letterhead inside, no accompanying letter. Just a list of the documents that were attached and a statement as to their number.
The first document explained that as soon as the import company owned by the Solo SDI was frozen, the batik firms went back to buying from Geo Wehry and Borsumij.
The next document described how this government decision had infuriated the SDI leadership. And that they used this situation to even further agitate the masses.
The third document explained how the decision to exile Minke had caused an increase in SDI membership in a number of places. The local Native administrators warned that this was tantamount to a challenge to the government and that the government should give some consideration as to how it should react.
The fourth document was a long report from Solo, taking up at least forty pages, in tiny, packed-together, and beautiful handwriting, but terrible Malay. The report set out the details concerning recent activities of the SDI in Solo that had come to the attention of both the Native and white administration. Haji Samadi and the rest of the SDI leadership had issued a statement announcing the formation of an organization called the Sarekat Islam, with Haji Samadi as leader. But the whole leadership of the SI was the same as the old SDI. It seemed that, while avoiding mentioning the SDI, Haji Samadi and the other leaders were making it clear that as far as they were concerned, they no longer had any connection with Raden Mas Minke.
The fifth document came from Semarang and explained that the SDI membership in the sugar areas along the north coast of Java had doubled. It was their guess that the increase in membership was a reaction to Minke’s exile.
The sixth document was from Bandung. In several towns in West Java, including Pameungpeuk, Banjanegara, Ciamis, Garut, and Cianjur, and especially in Sukabumi, SDI members were behaving with outright hostility toward government officials.
Documents like these that just reported the facts did not demand much thought on my part. I took a sheet of paper and wrote out my comments, concluding with a recommendation that all the reports—and I wrote out several quotations and the origins of the reports—be double-checked for accuracy. The follow-up reports should be submitted as soon as possible. I took my note myself to Monsieur R—.
He was busy examining files and I excused myself.
Back in my office I discovered Frits Doertier quickly glancing through my manuscripts. I realized straightaway that I had been negligent. I was wearing rubber-soled shoes from England. It was only after I was well inside the room that he realized I was there. He moved quickly away from the desk and made to look as if he was about to wipe down the chairs with his flannel cloth.
“What part were you reading, Frits?”
“I didn’t read anything, Meneer. I was just putting the papers aside so I could wipe down the table.”
“What part were you reading?” I asked again.
“No, Meneer, I didn’t read any of it.”
And I knew that I could do nothing to him. I had left the door open and had forgotten to lock the papers away before I went to see Monsieur R—.
“Would you prefer to be dishonorably discharged?”
“Don’t, Meneer. I haven’t done anything wrong. It is my job to tidy up and clean all rooms left open. That’s what the regulations here say, Meneer.”
“Empty your pockets, Frits.”
“No, Meneer, I won’t do that. You have no right to do that to me. You need a police order to search a person, or at the very least a policeman as a witness. You of all people should know that.”
“Very well,” I said. “Stay here, don’t leave,” and I reached for the telephone and reported the incident to Monsieur R— and asked for somebody from palace security to come and search Frits Doertier.
Monsieur R— arrived with Nicolaas Knor. And the latter immediately thundered his anger at Frits Doertier.
“What about all the advice I gave you? Why have you shamed me like this?”
“That’s enough, Knor,” intervened Monsieur R—. “And you, Frits, who gave you permission to touch those papers?”
“I had to clean the table, Meneer.”
And it was no one else but I who suffered shame because of this incident. But I thought the risk involved was greater than the shame. That I forgot to close the door and lock it was something I had to admit. I had to admit also that I did not lock the files away in the cabinet. But to risk a leak or loss of official documents would be to sin against the government.
A sergeant in the palace guard arrived, listened to my report, and ordered Frits Doertier to take off all his outer clothing, which was then examined. There was nothing except Frits’s personal belongings. The sergeant reported that there was nothing found on the person, saluted, and left.
“So what now, Meneer Pangemanann? It is you who must decide now,” Monsieur R— spoke in French to me.
“Yes,” I answered also in French. “I am very much ashamed of what has happened. I know I was negligent in not locking the door and forgetting to put the papers away. It is up to you, Meneer, to decide which of us you most need to keep.”
“You are the more important, of course,” he answered. “Do you want him to be dismissed?”
I knew I was in the wrong, and I knew that Frits was also in the wrong. I because of negligence, he out of conscious intent. At that moment, I couldn’t find an answer. My mind was working through the pros and cons of what was just.
“Do you feel you should apologize, Frits?” asked Monsieur R— in Dutch.
Putting his clothes back on, the teenager replied: “What reason is there for me to apologize, Meneer?”
“Very well. You need not report here again, Child,” said Monsieur R—, while observing me.
“I think that is the best,” I said in French.
“A pity, Frits,” said Monsieur R— in Dutch. “Leave this office now.”
“Very well, Meneer. I will come and fetch my letter of dismissal tomorrow, which should explain that I was not dismissed dishonorably. I have done nothing wrong.” He nodded respectfully to Monsieur R—, to me, and to Nicolaas Knor, then walked out of the room.
“Is there anything you want me to do, Meneers?” asked Knor.
Monsieur R— shook his head. He stared at me silently as if he were testing me inside.
“I am truly sorry this has happened, Monsieur R—” I said.
“Nothing like this would happen in the police, Meneer Pangemanann. I am also very sorry. It is a pity you are no longer a policeman. I could imagine that you would take this matter to court if you were a policeman. But here, Meneer, we cannot do that. Nothing that happens here may become public. This office must remain respectable and respected. Nothing must happen that harms its reputation.”
Nicolaas Knor returned carrying a bundle of Malay-language newspapers and magazines.
“This is the first time I have brought these here since Meneer De Lange died.” He looked straight across to the little table in the corner. Then he left again saying a thank you to me on his way out.
“You will get used to the rules and customs here,” said Monsieur R—; then he also left.
I threw myself into reading the magazines and papers that had just arrived, trying to forget all about what had just happened. And anyway, this was going to be
my daily routine for the foreseeable future. And I always found it interesting to read this kind of material. From an author’s writing, I would construct how he felt and thought, what his desires were, which way he leaned on this and that, his dreams, his stupidities and his weaknesses, what were his particular skills and capabilities, how broad was his general knowledge, and everything was linked together, as if by clear crystal threads. Every piece of writing was a world unto itself, floating halfway between reality and a dream world.
That was the first level at which I looked at things. The next thing I had to do was consider if these little worlds halfway between dreams and reality were in fact bullets aimed at the government. If they were bullets, it would be I who would assess their caliber and speed. And if the speed and caliber were enough, it would be my job to get rid of these particular bullets so they did not hit their target.
Among the writings of note that had appeared while I was away escorting that Modern Pitung alias Minke to Ambon were a number commenting on his exile.
One among them read more or less as follows:
Europe and the West possess a wealth of knowledge and learning that every day grows larger at an ever-increasing pace. It seems that here in the Indies every time a Native gets hold of just a tiny, meaningless speck of that knowledge, he feels so strong that he begins to behave as if he can compete with Europeans. That is not the reason we Dutch have taught the Natives to read and write. And so what will happen as more and more Natives receive a higher education? It will be of no use to them, their people, or the government. They will cause disturbances and problems everywhere. And worse than that, this new knowledge they have will only cause them to lose their own happiness. In the Indies, the happiest people of all are the peasants, precisely because they know nothing of the world and its problems. To broaden the education of the Natives is the same as to rob them of their happiness. An example of this is the current case of the leader of the SDI, Raden Mas Minke, who is now departing into exile. What is the point of a high education if its only fruit is one’s own exile? His education has not been of any benefit to him, nor to his family, nor to his people. It has been in vain that the government educated him.
Another assessment:
Raden Mas Minke, the wild man from Medan, has been exiled to Ternate. Only Ternate. None of his ancestors would have escaped with such a nearby exile. They would have ended up in Ceylon or South Africa. If he has any understanding at all, he will realize how generous His Excellency the governor-general has been in allowing him to still have some hope of returning to his homeland one day. And how kind the Netherlands Indies has been in never executing any Natives of the people of Raden Mas Minke. Study the history of the Indies since the Dutch have ruled here. Has a noble ever been executed? In these last three hundred years, it has rather been the Native kings themselves who have often ordered the death sentence for their own people. Are these not all signs of the greatness and generosity of the European heart?
If this wild one, this Raden Mas Minke, possessed just a little real understanding, he would know that what the government has done for his people has been far, far more and of far greater benefit than anything ever done by the Native kings in all their history.
Who was it that abolished forced labor? Not Raden Mas Minke, not the Native kings, but the government in all its glory. Who was it that taught his people, including Raden Mas Minke himself, to read and write? The government, not the kings of Java. Why was it that the cleverer he became, the more ungrateful and rebellious was his thinking? So it is only proper that people such as he are gotten rid of so as to lessen the ingratitude and troublesomeness in society. Is not our aim in life to have security, order, and calm so that we may be sure that all our plans meet with success?
I put these two examples of the reaction aside so I could discuss them later with Meneer L— and Monsieur R—. I knew just too well that they represented colonial thought in its most pure form. They used beautiful words, and presented the honorable face of the moralist, but were totally dishonest about the essence of colonial power. Because the reality was that only the powerful had the right to decide on how life would be lived, and on everything else. It was the powerful who had the right to decide what was wrong and what was right, what was just and what was unjust, what was good and what was bad. Whoever had the power could do whatever they wanted, until someone more powerful came along and reined them in or crushed them altogether. So life in the colonies was not like that in democratic Europe. In the colonies life bowed down before whoever was strong or stronger—in other words, colonial power itself.
Ah, these papers should have been just a bit fairer than that. If they were a bit more honest they would have written that Natives like Minke must learn that they are not yet strong enough, because colonial power comes from the sword, machines, and capital, while the Natives have none of these things.
You have to understand, my teacher, that during the three hundred years of Dutch rule in the Indies they built a pyramid of Native corpses, and that is their throne. I respect and honor you because you have changed the face of the Indies, because as a rebel you have achieved many things. But you did not understand the real inner workings of colonial power. You were too small in the scheme of things to challenge this power. You never saw the pyramid of your people’s corpses that has been their throne. If you had seen it, you would have run, run without ever turning back.
And just think, they have done this not just to you whose rebelliousness has succeeded in changing the Indies. Governor-General Idenburg had no qualms at all about exiling Natives who, after studying in Europe, did nothing more than demand equal wages with Europeans. They annoyed His Excellency because they had become so bigheaded as to think that they were the equals of Europeans. An example is Sutan Casayanag. And he is in the same place as you, my teacher, in the Moluccas!
Perhaps Minke himself would read all these excuses. I could imagine so clearly how all these spears would pierce through his heart, and he had no right to defend himself!
I had not yet finished reading the newspapers and magazines when the bell rang letting us all know we were now to go home.
That evening the family gathered in the parlor. The children were reading storybooks. They loved to read everything and anything that was connected with France. Madame sat silently beside me, doing embroidery, looking out toward the main road.
I just sat there enjoying the fresh evening air and smoking my cigar. I had not the slightest desire to think about anything to do with the office. Now that I had passed the half-century mark, I had to be able to bring some order to my life so that I could enjoy these moments of peace and quiet. The SDI could run amok all over Java, but evenings like this were for me alone to enjoy. Someone of my age who did now know how to be calm and how to enjoy the peace and quiet would achieve only rapid, and even more rapid, degeneration. Wasn’t it precisely for moments such as these that I worked so hard and ignored my conscience?
Outside in the wider world, there were predictions that before long mankind would experience new, unparallelled comforts brought by electricity. Electricity could already send signals through Morse, and the human voice over wire as in the telephone, and now, they said, you could hear classical music and speeches and news of sensational incidents. It was being predicted that soon everyone would have such an instrument in their homes. You would never need to read again because electricity would read the news, speeches, and lectures for you. What was the meaning of happiness if it was not to savor such moments as these, moment after moment, without your conscience jumping up and down making accusations?
There was no traffic on the road. Except occasionally a carriage rolling past, its driver nodding off as he went. People here didn’t seem to like going out much.
Aha—there were those two women again. I watched them walk along, one behind the other, then stop as they did the other day and hold on to the fence. Why were these two beggars always hanging around our house? Why were they afraid
to enter?
I got up and went inside to fetch my telescope. I sat down in my chair and looked at them through the telescope. The woman at the back was tugging on the other, trying to get her to leave. They seemed to be wearing quite respectable clothes. They weren’t beggars. They weren’t carrying any bamboo box. No coconut shell either.
I thought I recognized the woman who was pulling from behind. I stood and looked harder. Yes, I had seen her. And the woman in front. She was staring in our direction with an intense look in her eyes. It was not just a passing glance. She was watching us.
It hit me in a flash and my arms lost all their strength. The telescope crashed onto the glass top of the table.
“Jacques!” my wife cried out, throwing aside her embroidery. The children also stopped reading. Everyone was watching me. I myself hurried across to the telephone. I rang the police station and asked them to take care of those two women!
“And search them.”
The woman was none other than Piah. The one in front was the excellent shot with the revolver, the Princess of Kasiruta. That poor child wanted to shoot me. How ungrateful she was. Didn’t she know that she owed me? Wasn’t I the only one in the world who could prove it was she who shot Suurhof?
My wife chased after me and humored me: “It’s just a couple of women looking for work, Jacques. Maybe they want to ask here.”
Without answering I went into my study and fetched my pistol. I put it in my pocket. When it came to shooting, perhaps I would come off second best. At the very least I had to be ready to defend my wife and children if she ran amok.
The police arrived, arrested and detained the two women. I heard the argument between them and the Princess.
“Come and see what’s happening,” I called to my children, who were already about to get up to have a look.