Child of All Nations

  “Don’t worry,” he finally humored me. “In my opinion, this story is totally untrue, it’s just libel. This character of yours, if he does in fact exist, is a liar. You have been taken in by his lies. He’s nothing but a liar.”

  My honor was offended. His words implied: You too are lying through that character of yours, Minke!

  “But you know, sir, Minke is not a liar.”

  “Of course you are not a liar. But a wrong original conception can give birth to many errors,” he answered. “There are no peasant farmers who have become poor as a result of renting their land to the sugar mills. They receive a fair rent. They are happy to work as plantation laborers on their own land that they have rented out.”

  He was silent and I was silent. The atmosphere of enmity pressed down upon my heart.

  “Do you know what the wage of a sugar-mill worker is?” Seeing that I could not answer, he went on, “At least one talen a day. By working for a factory just one week, he receives the equivalent of the rent he receives himself for one bahu of his land.”

  At that moment, I was envious of Kommer’s skill in debate. Someone like him would easily be able to parry the attacks of this other experienced newspaper man. I was not able to do so yet. At that moment I could do nothing. I had to admit that there was still much that I had not yet learned from Trunodongso.

  “You are still silent. I’m not going to do anything, sir. We are friends, yes? Your only lack is that you have not yet mastered all the material about sugar. You need to study the sugar mill’s Annual Report. The Tulangan one, in particular. Or for all of Sidoarjo, or even all of Java. Or you can study the Memorial Edition of History of the Sugar Mills. If you are indeed interested in these things, I will be very happy to help you.”

  I could not hold back Nijman’s words with talk about justice and truth. He looked at the issue from a completely different angle. It was clear he sided with the factories, that he did not want to know who this Trunodongso was.

  “And a good wage for a sugar-cane laborer, Mr. Minke: How much is that? Three talens. Someone working as a coolie, after just five days’ work, if he is a good worker, can earn the equivalent of twice the rent he receives for one bahu of land. Who says people prefer to work their own land rather than become sugar-mill coolies? What’s the price of a day’s labor hoeing? A few cents, no more than that.”

  His words kept on sliding out, unstoppable, unparried. All kinds of emotions wrestled within my breast. All kinds of information about sugar came forth from his mouth: The cost of the foreman’s labor, of the employees, the cost of the hulling machinery, the cost of the sack material and of having them sewn up, the expertise of the sugar-mill engineers, whose education was not available in every town or country.

  My pride in this, my best manuscript, the most perfect of all, dissolved in disarray. My faith in myself melted. I saw myself as the most stupid of people, thoughtless, not knowing how to weigh things up, ignorant. But still I felt I was on the side of truth.

  “You are a good writer, but not a good journalist. In this you have lost the beauty of writing. You are making a speech”—exactly what Kommer had said.

  He didn’t read the fifth page.

  “It’s a pity we have such different opinions,” I said. My hand was ready to take the manuscript from his desk.

  “We don’t have different opinions, Mr. Minke. Don’t be mistaken. When you are writing about reality, you must make sure that you provide enough documentation. There are specific ways of doing that.”

  “I am sure my writings do not contain errors.”

  “People can believe in many things that are not right. History is indeed the story of liberation from wrong beliefs, of struggle against stupidity, against ignorance.”

  He looked the other way, as if to give me the chance to regain possession of myself.

  “It’s best that you keep clear of things that might end up getting you in trouble. One or two untrue explanations in the hands of an educated person could develop into some kind of general disturbance. It will be Natives who suffer in the end. Do you still remember Khouw Ah Soe? An educated young man with wrong thoughts stemming from a wrong explanation of things. He left his own country and came to make trouble here in the Indies. It was lucky the Chinese of Surabaya weren’t able to be stirred up by him. So in the end he had to suffer the consequences of his own errors. You’ve heard what happened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was killed.”

  “Khouw Ah Soe?”

  “That’s who I’m talking about.”

  “Where, Mr. Nijman?”

  “You seem very keen to know. I can tell from that, and from your writings, that you did indeed become friends with him.” He put his pipe down on the table; it had gone out. “If you ended up as Khouw Ah Soe did, I too would feel a loss, as would many others, Mr. Minke.”

  “If you yourself experienced what Khouw Ah Soe experienced, Mr. Nijman, I would be just as keen to know what happened, even though you and I have never really been close friends.”

  No doubt he knew what my answer meant: I no longer looked upon him as a teacher. I saw him now as a competitor who wanted to box me into a corner. I took my manuscript, put it in my briefcase. And, just as Khouw Ah Soe had done that day, I left his office without excusing myself.

  I hired a carriage and headed straight for Jean Marais’s house. Along the journey I thought over and over again about those threat-filled words of Nijman’s. Perhaps he could do harm to me—and my story about Trunodongso could be used as evidence. He was happy, even joyful, about Khouw Ah Soe’s death. He might be equally as pleased by my own.

  Quickly I took out the manuscript. Ah, my most beautiful of all works, perfect! I held it in both hands. I tore it once, twice, three times. The paper was now tiny shreds, becoming even smaller, scattered along the road.

  Trunodongso, forgive me. I am not yet able!

  I found Maysoroh bringing water into the kitchen. She was so happy to see me. Jean was engrossed in watching his workmen. I took him into his own workroom.

  “You look upset, Minke,” he greeted me.

  “You’re not wrong, Jean.”

  “What trouble are you in now?”

  “No, it’s this…for the first time ever, I have torn up my own writing. I scattered it over the road.” I told him everything that had happened. And I ended with: “I will never have anything to do with Soerabaiaasch Nieuws again. Nor with Nijman. This is the second time he’s done wrong by me.”

  I waited to hear Jean’s opinion. He sat silently in his chair. He didn’t even look at me, as if my anger, my worries, my fury were of no interest to him. All he did was call May and tell her to be quicker getting dinner ready.

  “Don’t you have any opinion on this, Jean?” I pressed him. “You’re siding with him because he’s European?”

  He blinked, startled, and turned to stare at me. He spoke slowly: “That is just prejudice,” he said in French, then went on in Malay: “I have often tried to explain to you what prejudice is. What you just said is a kind of prejudice, color prejudice, cultural prejudice. You are educated, aren’t you?”

  “Nijman is no less educated than me. He is more prejudiced. He is siding with the factories rather than with justice and what is right.”

  “Just a minute, Minke. You haven’t seen how things are. Perhaps you’re right, but are unable yet to prove that you are right. I am absolutely sure you are right about the factories. Your only weakness is that you don’t have any proof. As far as the law goes, you are in the wrong. Charges could indeed be brought against you. You would be found guilty. You could not produce evidence. On the other hand, the court would definitely be able to prove you were making unsubstantiated allegations.”

  “I could get the testimony of Trunodongso and others like him.”

  “He has put his thumbprint to every receipt he has received. And the amounts he would have received would be exactly as written on the receipt, not a cent les
s.”

  “But that’s where the deception lies!” my fury exploded again.

  “And that is what you must prove. You must take on a new task besides that of writer; you must become a detective. If you succeed in obtaining evidence that embezzlement and deception are occurring, your writing will be of much greater value. No one will be able to reject it. That indeed is the method used by the great social writers of Europe. Behind each of their works, there is full documentation. They are not afraid of any court. It is rather the courts that are sometimes afraid of them.”

  I had to listen. This kind of thing had never been taught by Magda Peters.

  “They too are like you, writing to achieve a victory for humanity and justice; but your position before the law is much weaker. I hope you will be stronger. You are not in the wrong, you are in the right. It is just that your position is not yet strong enough. Minke, you must never think that I am not on your side. I know you. And it is not just the Indies, but the whole world, that needs writers like you, writers who take positions on what they write about.”

  “You know all this; why don’t you write it yourself?”

  “If I could write, why would I become a painter?”

  “Thank you, Jean. I understand. You are my friend.”

  “Don’t be discouraged, Minke. There was no need to tear up that story. We could have studied it together. I am always happy to help you.”

  “I’m furious, worried, bitter, Jean.”

  “I understand. But your writings pose no danger while they remain unpublished. That’s the trouble with looking on Nijman as a god. The time had to come when you would be disappointed. He does not make the rules. He is just one man among millions upon this earth, and every one of those millions has the right to his own opinion. Why then are you angry? Why does the fact that Nijman has a different opinion offend you, upset you? He too has the right to his own opinion.”

  “He was so rude, Jean. He has never been like that before.”

  “You must see Kommer. He predicted this, that you would be disappointed.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “He was let down earlier than you.”

  “Thank you, Jean. I understand.”

  Maysoroh came out looking for me. Seeing we were engaged in serious conversation, she didn’t join us but sat at a distance looking at me with questioning eyes.

  “Kommer was here yesterday,” Jean said. “He was upset that his trap didn’t work. He was more upset still that you seemed disappointed with his opinions.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s Uncle Minke’s drink, May?” May left and returned carrying a tray with drinks—hot, steaming tea. Then she moved away again.

  “Perhaps he is a bit rough, a bit rude even. But that doesn’t mean he is necessarily wrong, Minke. He was disappointed too that you still wanted to write for the Soerabaiaasch Nieuws.”

  “May, let’s go to Wonokromo,” I said to her.

  “I’ve got a friend coming over this afternoon, Uncle.”

  After drinking what May had brought in, I excused myself. Jean Marais felt he had to limp out with me to the carriage. “Where’s your buggy?”

  “I’m using a hired one, Jean.”

  “Don’t be discouraged; don’t let this break you. It would be a loss to me too.”

  The carriage took me back towards Wonokromo. About a hundred yards from Jean’s house, I saw Kommer. Perhaps he was going to Jean’s place. He didn’t see me, and I didn’t really want to be seen by him.

  Darsam greeted me with his arm in a sling and his hand bandaged.

  “Cursed bad luck, Young Master,” he complained.

  “Fall off a carriage?”

  He shook his head and stroked his mustache with his left hand.

  “Just bad luck, Young Master, stupid luck!”

  “Fall from a horse? But you don’t ride.”

  “It’s all taken care of now, Young Master. It’s all in the hands of the police.”

  “Police? What’s happened?”

  “Fatso, Young Master, he came back. I’ll tell you later tonight, so Nyai can hear at the same time.”

  On entering the house, I found Mama sitting reading the Soerabaiaasch Nieuws. She stopped reading and motioned me to sit down. Then: “Your friend, Child…read this.” She pushed the paper across to me.

  In a big headline the news was reported: THE DEATH OF A RABBLE-ROUSER. I read the report. The person named as a rabble-rouser was Khouw Ah Soe.

  This report followed:

  One morning a wig was found nailed to the wooden pylons of the Merah Bridge. The wig had a long pigtail and was covered in blood. It had obviously been nailed there deliberately; the nail was not at all rusted. The police who examined it ordered a Chinaman to translate the writing inside. It read: “If this wig is found forcibly freed from my head, it means they have got me. They = the Tong Terror Society.”

  Three hours later, a fisherman had to climb down out of his sampan, fifteen meters from the bridge. His net had snagged on something. He hurriedly climbed aboard again and headed for shore, shouting: “A body! A body! Dead! In the water!”

  Once again the police arrived on the scene. All the fishermen nearby were ordered to haul in the net. The victim was a young Chinaman with short hair and but a few sharp teeth. His feet were bound together and tied to a bundle of rocks. On his body they found thirty wounds from sharp instruments.

  In a short time the police discovered who the man was: He had gone by the name of Khouw Ah Soe, a rabble-rouser on the run from Shanghai, chased out of Hong Kong, who finally met his end in the Mas River, Surabaya.

  No one has come to claim the body.

  “Don’t try to do anything about the body, Child. He has finished his work. Dying in someone else’s country, without friend or family.”

  “I heard from Nijman, Ma. He seemed happy about Khouw’s death.”

  Nyai Ontosoroh paid no heed to my words. She gazed into the far distance.

  “He knew the danger, Ma,” I said to humor her.

  “It seems anybody who has an opinion must be expelled or annihilated here in the Indies,” she said, half to herself.

  Mama then bowed her head, and so did I. We paid our respects to a young foreigner a few years older than I, a lone wanderer, here in the Indies to call out to his people to rise and awaken. The danger of Japan had already touched upon China, and Japan would swallow up their country if they remained stagnant in this modern era. Any nation would be proud to have a son such as him.

  Khouw Ah Soe appeared in my mind’s eye as a giant. I felt very, very small: A youth hanging onto a nyai, whose own country had been swallowed up by the Dutch for three hundred years.

  Mama was the first to raise her head. It seemed she was still half thinking to herself: “Any mother would be happy to have such a son as he, even though her heart would be in turmoil.”

  “He was an orphan, Ma.”

  “Happy then will his parents be to have him back with them.”

  The two of us sat silently, recalling all we could of that young Chinese man.

  “There was once another orphan like him, like your friend. Even today he is loved by the people in the village, perhaps in all the villages of Java, Child, even though hundreds of years have passed. He too was killed in the end like your friend. Except that he died on the battlefield. He too was brave, intelligent, clever. You know his name: Surapati—Untung Surapati.” She pronounced his name syllable by syllable, as if savoring its sound and its memory.

  My thoughts moved to Untung Surapati. Mama admired him and loved him. And I felt ashamed, because all this time I had never thought of him as more than a character in a story.

  “There is not a single Javanese who does not know of Untung Surapati. Every one of them loves him.”

  The atmosphere of mourning was abruptly ended by the arrival of a hired carriage. Kommer jumped down and then helped Jean Marais out. The two of them came up to the house.

  “Excuse
us, Nyai, we’ve come after hearing of Mr. Minke’s recent unhappy experience.”

  “You mean the report in the paper?”

  “Newspaper report?” Kommer asked. “No, his bitter experience with Maarten Nijman.”

  I quickly told Mama what had happened.

  “It wasn’t the manuscript I read?” Kommer asked.

  “No.”

  “That one you considered was your best article ever?”

  “I think,” Mama intervened, “it must have been his best. There was something he wanted to achieve with it.”

  “I think so too,” Kommer agreed. “But Jean Marais’s comments are right; Mr. Minke’s legal position is weak. But Trunodongso’s position is weaker still. He will never be able to prove the truth of his statements, even though he is telling the truth. But I want to give you some more information about Nijman’s paper. You should have been told this long ago. Nyai, Mr. Minke, it is only natural that Nijman takes the side of sugar, because he himself lives from sugar. His paper is owned by sugar interests, funded by the sugar companies to protect the interests of the sugar lobby.”

  Mama and I removed Khouw Ah Soe and Untung Surapati and Darsam from our thoughts. We also put aside Jean Marais, who was always dreamily admiring Mama.

  I was impressed by Kommer’s explanation. When he was still a teenager, having just graduated from the Dutch language primary school, he went to work for the weekly paper De Evanaar. It was a small and insignificant paper. Its printery was owned by a sugar mill. Then he found out that the paper itself was also owned by Lord Sugar.

  “I knew Mr. Mellema already twenty-five years ago,” he went on. “He arrived one day with a text he wanted printed in the paper. It attacked the attitude of the patih of Sidoarjo, who was putting obstacles in the way of the sugar mill’s attempts to expand the area of land it controlled. It rejected the patih’s opinion that sugar was impoverishing the region of Sidoarjo; it claimed that sugar was making the region prosperous. The patih was later moved to Bondowoso. Two years later a subdistrict head, a camat, argued with Mr. Mellema. The camat himself owned fifty hectares of first-class paddy fields, but he was still greedy to obtain more. A competition arose between the factory and the camat, each trying to expand their land holdings. Mr. Mellema came to the paper again, and ordered me to spy on the camat. Officially I was to go there as a reporter.”