Now I will be expelled and publicly humiliated.
She stood for a second before me. The freckles on her legs became clearly visible. And I heard her call:
“Minke!”
“Yes, miss.” I stood up.
“Is it true you wrote this”—she held up the S.N. v/d D—“using the pen name of Max Tollenaar?”
“Have I done something wrong, miss?”
“Max Tollenaar!” she whispered and held out her hand. “Come,” and she pulled me up and took me to the director.
All eyes were directed my way. Standing there before all the teachers and the director, I nodded respectfully. They hardly responded. Then I was taken across to stand before all the students.
Silence.
The woman teacher rested her hand on my shoulder. I was like someone at confession who didn’t really know what to confess.
“Students, teachers, Director, today I introduce to you all, especially to you students, an H.B.S. pupil by the name of Minke, whom no doubt you all know. But I’m not introducing the Minke whom everybody knows, but rather a Minke of a different quality, a Minke whose use of Dutch to state his feelings and thoughts is brilliant, a Minke who has written a literary work. He has proven that he is capable of writing perfectly in a language that is not his mother tongue. His has brought to life a snippet of reality, which other people, even though they too have experienced that reality, could never explain. I’m proud to have a pupil like him.”
She shook hands with me. I still wasn’t told to go. Her words of praise raised me up to the highest of heights. Now I waited for the final chop to fall.
“Minke! Is it true you do not have a family name?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Students, having a family name is just a custom. Before Napoleon Bonaparte appeared on the stage of European history, not even our ancestors—not one of them—used family names.” She began to tell how Napoleon’s decision on this was made law in all the territories that he controlled. Those who could not find an appropriate name were given one at the whim of the local officials, and Jews were given the names of animals. “Even so, the use of family names is not unique to Europe or to Napoleon, who got the idea from other peoples. Long before Europe was civilized, the Jews and Chinese were using clan names. It was through contact with other peoples that Europeans learned the importance of family names.” She stopped.
I was still standing there for everybody to look at.
“Is it true you’re not an Indo, Minke?”—a formal question that I had to answer in the affirmative.
“Inlander, miss—Native.”
“Yes,” she said loudly. “Europeans who feel themselves to be a hundred percent pure do not really know how much Asian blood flows in their veins. From your study of history, you will all know that hundreds of years ago, many different Asian armies attacked Europe, and left descendants—Arabs, Turkish, Mongol—and this was after Rome had become Christian! And don’t any of you forget that under the Roman empire, the Asian blood, and perhaps even African, of those citizens of Rome from various Asian nations—Arabs, Jews, Syrians, Egyptians—now mingles with the blood of Europeans.”
Silence continued to reign supreme.
My heart was empty. My body seemed unsteady. My only desire was to sit down again.
“Much of Europe’s science comes from Asia. Yes, even the numerals you use each day are Arab numerals, including zero. Imagine, what would it be like to count and add up without Arab numerals and without zero? And zero in its turn was derived from Indian philosophy. Do you know what the meaning of philosophy is? Yes, another time we’ll talk about this. Zero, a condition of emptiness. From emptiness comes the beginning, from the beginning there is a development until the climax, number nine, and then there is emptiness and we begin again with a higher value, tens, and so on, hundreds, thousands . . . there is no limit. Without zero the decimal system would vanish, and all of you would have to count using roman numerals. Most of your names are Asian, because Christianity was born in Asia.”
The students began to show their restlessness.
“If Natives do not have a family name, that is because they don’t, or don’t yet, need one; and there is no humiliation in that. If the Netherlands doesn’t have a Prambanan or a Borobudur temple, it means in that era Java was more advanced than the Netherlands. If the Netherlands still does not possess such things, yes, it is because they have never been needed . . .”
“Miss Magda Peters,” the director intervened, “it’s best that this discussion be closed.”
The discussion closed; everybody dispersed. Except for Magda Peters everyone seemed to avoid me. No one called out as usual. No one laughed. No one raced ahead of each other as they usually did. They all walked off quietly, full of thought.
Jan Dapperste, a student whose appearance was more Native than European, stood at the fence following after me with his eyes. He always introduced himself as Indo. But to me alone he had admitted to being Native. Trusting in me as a friend, he had explained that he was the adopted child of a preacher named Dapperste. An adopted child! He himself was pure Native. He felt close to me. After I obtained the buggy, it was usual for him to ask to ride along with me. Now he too seemed to be keeping his distance.
This time it was Magda Peters who asked for a ride. She didn’t say a word the whole way. Indeed, what’s the use of speaking when your heart and mind are full of troubles? The traffic was invisible to me. I could see only one thing: the students’ and the teachers’ anger towards Magda Peters. Their Europeanness had been wounded.
Once or twice Magda Peters looked at me from beside me where she was sitting.
“What a pity,” she sighed into the wind.
I pretended not to hear.
The buggy stopped in front of her house. She said thank you. Then suddenly:
“Come in, Minke,” and that was the first time she invited me into her home.
I walked with her inside. So we sat facing each other on the settee in the main room.
“You’re extraordinary, Minke. So you really wrote that.”
“It’s so, miss.”
“You are certainly my most successful student. I’ve taught Dutch language and literature for five years now. Almost four years in the Netherlands. None of my students could write as well as that—and to be published as well. You must be fond of me—are you?”
“There is no teacher of whom I’m more fond.”
“Is that true, Minke?”
“With all my heart, miss.”
“I guessed so. You must have been following all my lessons very carefully, with all your mind and heart. Otherwise there is no way you could write as well as that. You’re not angry with Suurhof, are you?”
“No, miss.”
“Good. You’re worth much more than he. You’ve proven what you can do.”
The flattery was so embarrassing. She told me to stand up.
“At the very least, Minke, my efforts, my strivings these five years have now achieved some results.” She pulled me near her.
Totally surprised, I found myself in her embrace, and she kissed me until I was out of breath! Until out of breath!
* * *
Every day I had to visit Jean’s house, even if only for one or two minutes, to drop off or pick up May or to hand in some new order. I also had to drop in at my boardinghouse.
Having my own buggy made everything easier: chasing after orders, writing advertising texts, writing other things as well. My time somehow seemed to last longer.
When I arrived home, I was usually exhausted and needed to sleep for a while. Usually Annelies woke me up, bringing a fresh towel, and ordering me to bathe. Afterwards we sat and talked, or read Indies newspapers, or Dutch magazines.
At night, I worked, studied, or wrote while waiting upon Annelies in her room. Her health was improving with every day. But she hadn’t yet resumed working.
Mama was very busy in the office and out in back; she had no time for the
two of us during the day.
That night, like the nights before, I sat at the table in Annelies’s room. She was reading Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe in a Dutch translation, each page of which was divided into two columns. I’d prepared a list of books she had to read, all books for young people, such as Stevenson and Dumas. She had to finish them in one month. And beside her lay the old dictionary that Mama used every day—an old dictionary that, over the last ten years, had become incapable of meeting the demands of new developments.
I sat across from Annelies reading letters from Miriam and Sarah before I started writing a story to be titled “A Father’s Son.” I meant no other than Robert Mellema.
This time Miriam’s letter was even more splendid.
Do you remember at all that “other one”? I’ve received a letter from the Netherlands. From a friend, a close friend, who knows what happened to him in South Africa, in the Transvaal. The writer of the letter returned home to the Netherlands after being wounded in a brief battle. He himself was once in the same unit as the “other one.” The brigade was under the command of one Mellema, a young engineer who was hard, courageous, ambitious, he said.
Friend, I was so happy to receive his letter. As happy as I am to receive yours. In it, friend, there was something mentioned that might interest you. The “other one” is a few years older than you, perhaps. Answering the Dutch call to seize back and defend their independence from the British, and without thinking too much about it all, he left for Africa . . . and was greatly disappointed.
Though there are some reports on the war in the Indies press, there is a great deal that is not reported. The Dutch were immigrants there, my friend—I think your favorite teacher, Magda Peters, pays too little attention to wars—and they ruled over the native peoples. In their turn the Dutch immigrants were conquered by British power, also an immigrant power from Europe. So power was structured in layers, with the natives at the bottom.
Just think, isn’t it the same in the Indies? Just as Papa explained? There are some small differences, but they don’t alter the basic reality. Aren’t the Natives here ruled by their own rulers? Kings, sultans, and bupatis? In their turn this brown government is controlled by a white government. The kings, sultans, and bupatis, with all the facilities they have here, are the same as the immigrant Dutch power in South Africa.
My friend, that “other one” was so disappointed when he realized what the war between the British and the Boers—the Dutch immigrants—was really about: who would control the land, gold, and natives. The young Dutchmen who were called to go there from all over the world came only to be wounded or to die for interests alien to Holland. That “other one,” according to his letter, saw how the natives of South Africa were much worse off than the natives of the Indies, far worse off than the natives of Aceh. If he was honest to himself, he said, he felt no different from an Indies Army soldier in Aceh.
But he realized this all too late. And he only came to that realization as a result of an unexpected meeting with a nonwhite inhabitant, though not a black, named Mard Wongs. This person, my friend, was only one of several wealthy farmers who could speak Javanese. He and all the others, even though they spoke Afrikaans, were Slameiers, of your own people. Mard Wongs was an Afrikaan version of his original name. I think it must have been: Mardi Wongso. And the Slameiers are none other than the descendants of Javanese and Buginese-Makassarese-Madurese Natives, who had been exiled to South Africa by the Company.
Interesting, yes?
Now Mellema’s platoon, so writes my friend from the Netherlands, entered Mard Wongs’s house to shelter there for the night. The old man, who was white with age, refused them and angrily threw them out of his house. Mellema lost his temper and threatened the old man that he would be shot.
Mard Wongs became more enraged: What else do you Dutch want? In Java you robbed us of all that we rightfully owned, you robbed us of our freedom, and now here you beg for shelter under my roof. Have you never been taught the meaning of robbery and begging? Shoot me then! Here is the breast of Mard Wongs. I would not give you the shade from a single piece of roof nor shelter behind one board of my house. Go!
And do you know, my friend, that in this contest of wills, Mellema gave in. He and his platoon were forced to sleep out under the open sky.
It was that incident that made the “other one” realize how Indies Natives hated the Dutch. He realized then that he and his platoon were not the upholders of noble ideals, but merely and no more than the tools of colonial power. He was ashamed. He was confused. He had dreamed of becoming a hero, of making some contribution to humanity. Now he was in the middle of tyranny’s arena.
Pity the “other one.”
The next morning his platoon attacked a position held by the British South African Light Horse Brigade. Earlier, a Boer regiment had attacked in large numbers from another direction but was confronted, pushed back, and almost totally surrounded and annihilated.
In the midst of all this, Mellema’s company attacked the enemy. The British were surprised, fell into disarray, and dispersed under alternative attacks from two directions. The position fell to the Boers.
But, my friend, “the other one,” was shot and captured. He has written that perhaps he will be taken as a prisoner of war to England. During those last days he never tired of regretting his earlier stupidity.
The reason why I’m telling you all this, my friend, is simply to add another perspective about something that is not generally publicized in the Indies. Isn’t it true you only read about the brutality of the British and the victories of the Dutch in the papers? On the other hand, says Papa, the British press reports are about the savagery and viciousness of the Dutch towards the natives. But there is no paper in England, the Netherlands, or the Indies that talks about the South African natives themselves, let alone about the Slameiers people. Isn’t the world strange?
I think the Javanese Natives are better off. There have been a few people who have spoken up on their behalf. Yes, even though their voices have been drowned in the sheer din of the bureaucracy. This is something we haven’t talked about and analyzed yet. Let’s try to discuss it another time. You agree, I hope?
Now Minke, my friend, don’t let me wait so long for your next letter.
Miriam de la Croix.
Sarah’s letter was different again. She wrote:
I can understand it if Miss Magda Peters didn’t know anything about the Association Theory. We didn’t know anything more than we told you that day. No more than that.
I told Papa that you didn’t know anything about it. He only laughed boisterously, and said: You also do not know any more than the little you told him.
After your letter arrived I told Papa that Magda Peters didn’t seem to know anything about it. Your other teachers couldn’t offer an explanation either. Perhaps they were unwilling, deliberately stopping themselves from answering, or perhaps, indeed, they didn’t know anything. So what did Papa say? Not everyone has an interest in colonial policy, just as not everyone is interested in the art of cooking. And don’t forget too, that in this age in which we live all the Indies believes in the greatness, authority, wisdom, justice, and compassion of the government. There are no beggars dying of hunger in the streets. Neither are there sick people dying in the streets. They too are protected by the government’s laws. No foreigner is beaten to death, just because he is a foreigner; foreigners too are protected by the government’s laws.
There is something I feel you should know. Papa has been talking about you: A youth like that should continue his studies at a university in the Netherlands. Perhaps he should study law, Papa said of you. Even if he failed, he would still have learned what the law means to Europeans.
What do you think? Is it possible that a Native could become a graduate in a European science? To be honest, Papa doubts it. Papa says—don’t be angry like you were before—the Native psychology hasn’t yet developed as far as that of the European: His wiser considerations
are still too easily pushed aside by lustful passions. I don’t know if this is true or not. It seems that it is true though, especially if you look at the upper echelons of your people. You too should think about this. What do you think?
There is another thing I should pass on to you: One of the youths being tried out by Dr. Snouck Hurgronje is called Achmad, from Banten. I tell you this in case some day you meet, become acquainted, and correspond.
“Why are you sighing?” Annelies suddenly asked.
“On fire.”
“What’s on fire?”
“My head. My own head. All sorts of things keep coming up. There is already so much work and I’m still not allowed to go undisturbed for a single moment. Read!” and I pushed the letters over to her.
“They’re not for me, Mas.”
“It’s best you know too.”
Annelies read them slowly and carefully.
“It seems many people are fond of you. It’s a pity I don’t understand much of this.”
“There’s no reason to say it’s a pity, Ann. They all seem to want to be my teacher.”
“Isn’t it good to have teachers?”
“You too, Ann! Of course, it’s good to find a teacher. No knowledge is useless. It’s only that they all seem to have a passion to see me become an important person as a result of their own efforts. Aren’t they capable of doing it themselves anyway? Boring teachers are a terrible torment, Ann,” I said.
“Then you don’t need to answer.”
“That’s not right either, Ann. I’ve read their letters. They wrote to get an answer.”
And Sarah had gone a bit too far. Unashamedly mentioning things like lust. Asking for a reply too. Does she want me to strip myself naked? Even in Europe this is not yet a matter for public discussion. It is a private, tightly closed matter. These de la Croix girls go too far!
Annelies resumed reading. I think it unsettled her that the letters came from two girls, sisters. She put the letters down on the table, folded them properly, and put them back into their envelopes. She didn’t say anything else.