House of Glass

  “Forgive me, Comrades,” Soendari rejoined. “I have not finished my tasks yet. Comrades must decide this themselves.”

  “Go with him, Soendari,” one of them decided and all the others chorused their agreement.

  Colonial people, white or brown, who have never studied the Native way of thinking and relating to each other, might indeed swallow such a report as the truth. I myself didn’t really believe it. The way the report told it, everything unfolded according to the European way of thinking and relating to each other. I suspected it was probably written by a European.

  But I had to be cautious too about this evaluation of mine. What if the report was accurate?

  In that case, it would be a very appropriate subject for a short story or novel, written in the European style. Just imagine, a Native, a young woman, dedicating her life to her chosen work, putting that ahead of her dedication to her father, a father who sincerely loves her greatly. And remember, in a Native family the father is nothing less than a maharaja whose decrees have absolute authority. Just imagine too, there was her father, a man used to giving orders to those below him, more or less negotiating with his own daughter’s friends, and in front of his daughter too! What a position for a father like him to be in! How must he behave?

  But I must admit I tend not to believe that such a conversation took place. Maybe in Europe—in France, for example—but never here in the Indies.

  But let me tell you now how the Bupati of Pemalang reported what happened after he spoke to Siti Soendari’s father himself.

  They arrived in Pemalang that same evening. The next morning before leaving to go to see the bupati, the father told Soendari to wait for him at home and not to go off anywhere.

  And so the father set off to see the bupati to seek his guidance on what he must say to his daughter in accord with the will of the government.

  He was asked to come in to face the bupati. By coincidence Meneer Kontrolir was also present. The father nervously with head bowed reported on all that had happened in Semarang. The kontrolir without interrupting started taking notes. It was only after the father had completed his report that the kontrolir spoke: “Good. I would like to hear from Soendari herself about her work and her ideas.”

  So they devised a plan whereby, unbeknownst to Soendari, she would talk while others secretly listened.

  That evening her father took Soendari to visit a friend’s house. And the young woman did not know that the kontrolir was listening from the other side of the bamboo wall.

  As soon as she had seated herself, the woman of the house greeted her in Javanese: “Wah, Jeng Soendari, it’s been so long since we’ve seen you. I have missed you greatly, Jeng.”

  “Yes, there are many difficulties in finding ways to make a living, Ibu. Forgive me.”

  “Why are you worried about making a living, Jeng? Your father can give you all you need and want. What else is there that you want? All you have to do is wait for a husband to come along, but you are out there doing all sorts of things! Your father would be much happier if you stayed to look after him in the house.”

  “Forgive me, Ibu. I did not spend ten years at school and two years working just to sit and wait for a husband to come along.”

  “So what else is it that you seek in this life, Jeng, if it is not happiness? And where is there a woman who has achieved happiness without a husband?”

  Up till then, her father had avoided saying anything. He knew that behind the wall sat a representative of the State, hiding like a burglar, following everything being spoken. Perhaps the old man was also repulsed by the thought that there were Europeans who were prepared to listen in to other people’s private conversations.

  I myself never thought that a European would be prepared to resort to such low and contemptible behavior. It’s true, all that I knew about Europe were its great achievements, its high civilization, the things in which it was superior to others. In the Indies all the contemptible and humiliating work is delegated to the Natives, such as my work. But now I find there are Europeans who volunteer to do such filthy work themselves.

  “But I am certainly not going to just sit and wait for a husband.”

  “But in a few more years, Jeng, it will be too late to find one.”

  Then the conversation suddenly turned very serious. Soendari explained her views without hesitation: “Since I was little I was brought up by my father to become a free and independent woman. My father never once forbade me to do anything, as long as it did not bring danger or dishonor to the family or myself. My father’s love shed its light on my family and on me. My beloved father has always been my strength.”

  And now the father was forced to say something too: “Since she was little she has never known the love and affection of a mother. I have been her father and mother together. When she was little she slept in my bed, and I gave everything to her, because she had lost so much that was important; she almost never even had the chance to suckle on her mother’s breasts.”

  “You have suffered so much, Jeng.”

  “I have never suffered any real difficulties. The star of good fortune has always shone down upon me.”

  “That’s very beautiful, Jeng. For myself I have never been to school. But what difference does school make when the issue at hand is life itself? What is the meaning of life without devotion? Jeng, your father has asked me to help him explain to you the situation, should he ever be in difficulties. You are a clever girl and grown up, Jeng. Now your father needs you to show your devotion to him.”

  “Here I am, his humble daughter. Have not I always shown my devotion to my father? Am I not speaking the truth, Father?”

  The father did not know what to say when he heard this completely unexpected question. Finally he answered slowly, very slowly, and cautiously: “Yes, Ndari.”

  “Ah, ah, well, it’s not so much because you have not shown devotion to your father, Jeng. But think about this. Your older brother is still studying and so has not been able to present a grandchild to your father. Is your father now not old enough to cradle a grandchild? If you yourself one day reach your father’s age and are not able to cradle a grandchild of your own, what bitterness will you then feel, Jeng. I am only explaining to you what your father cannot bring himself to tell you.”

  Siti Soendari glanced at her father for a moment. She saw the chicken-claw marks that had started to appear at the corners of his eyes. She bowed her head and whispered in Dutch: “Father has never before talked to me via a third party. What is happening, Father? Has Father lost his faith in his daughter?”

  “It’s just that I have been unable to bring myself to say these things, Child. I have never lost my faith in you.” He stood up and walked out into the front yard.

  “You can see for yourself, Jeng, your father cannot bring himself to continue with what he was saying.”

  “Is the intention that I be forced to take a husband like the girl from Jepara?”

  “No one is forcing you, Jeng. Your honored father wants you to do this of your own free will. Look how your friends are all married. Only one of your friends is unmarried, and that is because she is insane.”

  “There are three others who did not marry, Ibu. Because they died young. So I can be equated with a madwoman and dead people, is that what you are saying?”

  “No, I don’t mean things that way, Jeng. Forgive this old person who so easily says things the wrong way.”

  “Two others died after they married, Ibu. One in childbirth, and another died of a broken heart when her husband took a second, younger wife! Only one among all my friends has not seen her husband take a second wife.”

  “No one knows how their fate will unfold, Jeng.”

  Siti Soendari was quiet for a moment, then continued cautiously: “Even if this was indeed what my Father desired, it should not be you, Ibu, who tells me.” She observed the old woman suspiciously. “There is something wrong here, Bu.”

  “Why, Jeng? This is how it is now. I
would never speak like this to you if it were not your Father’s wish. Forgive me, Jeng, if what I have said has angered you.”

  Then there flowed forth those words that I had so eagerly awaited, words that would throw light on the relationship between Siti Soendari and Raden Mas Minke. She spoke like this: “I think something bad is going on here, Bu, forgive me.”

  “How can you say something like that, Jeng?” the old woman asked, startled.

  “Listen, Ibu, perhaps Ibu has never heard the name Bendoro Raden Mas Minke?”

  “I have heard that name, Jeng. Didn’t he visit your house once? Everyone was talking about him then.”

  “During his last visit to our house, he made a request to Father and Father agreed to carry out his request.”

  “And what was that, Jeng?”

  “Standing before Father and also me he spoke this way: Mas, this daughter of yours, he said, pointing to me, never prevent her from gaining an education. While Mas can afford it, always be prepared to pay whatever it costs. Father made this promise in front of me. Then Bendoro Raden Mas asked another thing: Never force her to marry. Never make her suffer what the girl from Jepara suffered! My father also made that promise. Indeed, he even went on to say: No one will ever force her to go against her own ideals. The tragedy of the girl from Jepara will never befall her. Since she was a baby she has never known a mother, so she must have everything else. Believe me, Minke, I will give her the freedom to become whatever she wants. And I will give thanks just to see her become a person useful to others.”

  “That’s right, Jeng. And you have been of great help and comfort to your father. And how much better would it be if you were able to present him with a grandchild, a grandchild that he longs for. . . .”

  The assistant resident of Pekalongan was very satisfied when the kontrolir of Pemalang reported this conversation. He considered that it was a very good first step. In the end any Native girl would cease all her goings-on once she had been taken to the wedding bed. But the resident of Central Java didn’t think the meeting amounted to anything, just stupid village talk between a pimp and the next victim.

  But the reality was that more and more of Soendari’s writings started to circulate, even though she herself didn’t appear in public anywhere. The Post Office had been instructed to keep a surveillance on her mail. But it turned out that she never used the post anyway.

  The articles that she wrote while she was shut away in seclusion in Pemalang got better and better, all written in school Malay. Even though her name never appeared on any of them, she could not fool me. She had a writing style of her own. So far no newspaper had fallen victim to her—a fine of thirty guilders and closure for three days awaited anyone who published her articles.

  And as was the case with the father of the girl from Jepara—at least according to all the rumors—now Soendari’s father was also confronted with a list of possible sons-in-law. They were all quite impressive future priyayi, all educated and well-schooled young men from the Pekalongan district. But as the Bupati of Pemalang reported, Soendari refused to cooperate.

  “Father has bestowed upon me an education, much learning, and much love. Was it all just for this? Why has Father abandoned me now like this?”

  “It is not your father, Ndari, it is not me who wants this. I have given you all the freedom that is mine to give. You have to try to understand just what the real situation is. I would be in the wrong if I did this just because of my own wishes.”

  “If all that was ever expected of me was to choose a partner, what was the point of my spending ten years studying? What was the point of my using up so much of your money for that? What was the point of all my efforts and striving? I should now be able to achieve more than just the choosing of a husband. Does father not know that since the late girl from Jepara, I have been the only woman to come forward like this?”

  It was when I heard this that I realized that Siti Soendari had come forward consciously, as if she were balancing the deficiencies of the girl from Jepara. She didn’t want to be pulled down only because of the love of a father. And this was something that made me respect her even more. It was clear that she was indeed the spiritual child of the Modern Pitung, a fighter and a person of action. The words of the Modern Pitung obviously lived on within her. She answered consciously, unmoved by her own personal feelings.

  And I could understand too how her father became trapped between two forces—the unlimited power of the government and his love for his daughter.

  Then one day her father saw her receive a telegram from a neighbor. As a European-educated person, he did not want to know what was in it. He must not have any suspicions. So he left to check on the rice fields. When he returned home, his daughter was nowhere to be seen. And she had not returned by nightfall either.

  Once again he hired a taxi and traveled to Semarang. As he entered Semarang, his taxi was stopped by the police and he was taken to the police station. A police inspector, full-blooded European, pink-skinned, invited him to take a seat and warned him straightaway: “Try to stop your daughter from speaking tonight. She has already caused us a lot of trouble. If more women followed her example . . .”

  Semarang was in the middle of a transport strike. One of the colonial newspapers equated this strike with one of the big European strikes. The streets were silent, because even the horse carts refused to work, and the buffalo carts as well, not to mention, of course, the motorized public transport. That was why it was easy for the police to identify the father’s taxi.

  The father didn’t know how to answer.

  “Look, Meneer,” said the inspector, “your daughter is even playing dirty.”

  “Playing dirty?”

  “Pemalang itself has always been quiet. Meneer himself knows that. Then as soon as your daughter comes back to live, what happens? The sugar fields are burned down.”

  “My daughter would have nothing to do with anything like that,” the father rejoined.

  “Don’t say it is impossible, Meneer. We’ll soon see.”

  “My daughter never left our house.”

  “How can you say that? She is in Semarang now.”

  “That is why I have come here, to get her. And anyway, there have been no sugar fields set alight in Pemalang.”

  “It happened while you were on your way to Semarang. Fifteen hectares were destroyed, Meneer.”

  “Impossible! Impossible!”

  “Very well then. You find your daughter first, Meneer. You know where to find her? The same place as before. The wayang orang building.”

  On leaving the police station, the father was surprised to find that his driver refused to take him any farther. He had to pay the driver what was owing.

  Before leaving, the driver needed to express his regrets: “Forgive me, Ndoro. I know, Ndoro, that you are the father of Jeng Soendari. I should take you to your final destination. But this is not possible in Semarang. Especially after your being brought here by the police. And if Jeng Soendari saw that I was working, she would be unhappy with me. A thousand pardons, Ndoro. My prayers will always be for your safety, Ndoro.”

  And the taxi roared off. The father walked on toward his destination.

  It was about twelve midnight when he arrived at the wayang orang building. And he could hear his daughter speaking from the stage. He should have been covered in a cold sweat. But he wasn’t. Every now and then there was an outburst of applause.

  Suddenly one of the men seated in the front row stood up, raised one of his hands, and walked up onto the stage. He approached Soendari and spoke to her. No one could hear what he said to her. And that beautiful young woman came down from the stage.

  The man stood on the stage. Now he held up both his hands and signaled that the meeting was over.

  The audience stood, moving only slowly, unhappy to see the meeting end so soon.

  As soon as Soendari came out of the building, the father spoke: “Quick. Ndari,” he said. “They are going to arrest you,”
and he ushered his daughter into the dark of the night.

  No one knew where they went. The police agents given the task of following Soendari lost her tracks.

  Two days later we found out that her father had withdrawn all his savings from the Javaache Bank. Since that day we heard no more from Soendari. She made no more public appearances and wrote no more articles.

  In her house in Pemalang, we found letters from Marco. And there was more in them than discussions of organizational matters and politics. And they were all written in the tone of a man courting the woman he loved. So the rumors that had been reported to me were true.

  10

  Ten days after the wayang orang theater incident in Semarang, Marco, that other spiritual child of Raden Mas Minke, was released from the Solo jail. There were scores of people there who greeted him at the prison gates with applause and shouts. He was lifted up on their shoulders, carried across to a car, and taken off somewhere or other.

  The next morning he was seen moving around Semarang. Three days later he had disappeared again, then it was reported that he was seen in Pacitan. His clothes were filthy. He was traveling alone and wearing a new pair of leather sandals. His eyes were somewhat sunken. He looked like a sugar field foreman who had just been sacked.

  Then he disappeared again, only to reappear in Pemalang.

  It was obvious that he was looking for Soendari. Having just been released from the jail in Solo, he was also free of suspicion that he was involved in the recent arson attacks on the sugarcane fields. He no doubt felt a certain emptiness at not being on the verge of being dragged before a court again. In Pemalang he was seen wearing a clean white buttoned-up shirt, white trousers, and shiny black shoes. He wore a gray felt hat on his head as if he were a Eurasian on holiday. He carried a cane walking-stick and strode along dashingly. His big eyes and his rather pointed nose did make it more likely that people would think he was a Eurasian. The way he walked and the confidence he radiated all served to disguise his fears.