Child of All Nations

  “Have you ever seen a train, Piah?”

  “Yes, Ndoro,” she answered tiredly. But she wasn’t really interested. Neither were the others. It was as if Stevenson, the inventor of trains, had never harnessed steam to move a locomotive engine, which then carried the products of cane workers’ sweat to Tanjung Perak harbor.

  “Have you been on one?”

  “No, Ndoro.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to?”

  “No,” she answered slowly, paying more attention to the actual question than to the presence of a train in either her imagination or on this earth of mankind.

  “Look at the train.” I pointed to a string of carriages with its engine puffing and hissing along from the south. “Isn’t it fantastic?”

  They all shifted their gaze to the horseless iron carriage. Not one of them held it in particular admiration. It was not part of their world. Perhaps their own dreams were more beautiful.

  The carriage was being overtaken by the panting, breathless train, which puffed out clouds of smoke and ash like a dragon in the myths of bygone peoples. But my fellow passengers were still not interested. Perhaps they were exhausted by the uncertainty of their fate. Perhaps, too, Trunodongso, the center of their lives, was the only grand thing in their thoughts.

  “Do you know that Pak Truno’s sick?”

  No one answered. They knew; better not to speak out.

  “You can work at Wonokromo,” I said to the two eldest children.

  They didn’t answer.

  “You’ve never been to school?” I asked again.

  “It’s enough they know how to hoe the ground, Ndoro.” Now it was their mother who answered.

  “Perhaps Pak Truno has already been seen by Tuan Doctor.”

  In the glow of the streetlights I could see them become anxious: A doctor had entered the life of Truno. Ah, how much everything European torments their peace of mind. I didn’t feel able to keep the conversation going. I realized there was a centuries-wide gap between them and me. Centuries! Perhaps this was what my history teacher meant when he talked about the social gap, or maybe, better still, the historical gap. In one nation, where people eat and drink the same things, in one country, yes even in one carriage there can be such a gap, not yet or not at all bridged.

  All of us in that carriage sat silently, each with his or her own groping thoughts.

  Our vehicle entered the Boerderij Buitenzorg long after the sun had set. Mama ordered that they all be taken straight into the warehouse. Trunodongso was sitting on a bamboo mat being examined by Dr. Martinet. Seeing a European present, Truno’s wife and her children stopped, each gripping hold of the other.

  “It’s all right,” I said, encouraging them. “Go on in.”

  I set an example, and they moved forward, their feet dragging along the floor, bowing again and again, keeping their gaze away from the white person in front of them.

  Mama followed behind them.

  “Ayoh, don’t be afraid.” She too encouraged them, passing them and going up to the doctor.

  “The wound is somewhat old,” said Dr. Martinet in Dutch to Mama.

  “A villager, doctor,” answered Mama.

  “It’s not a wound from being pierced by bamboo, Nyai,” he spoke again. “A wound from a sharp weapon, perhaps a week ago. Has there been another fight here since the incident with Darsam?”

  “No.”

  “Remember, Nyai, what you say now I’ll have to report if there is any investigation.”

  “Of course, Doctor.”

  “I know he didn’t fall on any bamboo,” Dr. Martinet pressed.

  “What does it matter, Doctor? It’s all the same. He is wounded and must be treated.”

  “It might be a different matter before the law.”

  “There’s no need for a trial, Doctor,” answered Nyai Ontosoroh patiently.

  “Very well. It was an accident with bamboo. Make him understand, Nyai. If he doesn’t, he can get a lot of people in trouble.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. You are always so good to us.”

  Dr. Martinet went home without joining us for dinner.

  Only then did Trunodongso’s wife and children sum up enough courage to approach. As quick as lightning Mama shifted her attention to her new guests: “Stay here with your husband, you and all your children. Don’t think about what’s happened. Look after him well. There are more mats over there. Roll them out on the floor when you want to sleep. The warehouse is big. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t tell anyone anything. Just one story to someone, and you could bring disaster upon us all. Do you understand?”

  “They all understand, Ndoro,” Trunodongso answered from his place on the mat.

  “Come on, Child,” Mama said.

  As we walked away she put her hand on my shoulder and whispered slowly: “After you left to fetch them I sent Panji Darman off to the shipping agent. There’s a ship leaving for Betawi tomorrow. You must leave tomorrow, Child, Nyo. You must act as if nothing has happened. And don’t speak to anyone.”

  I took Mama’s hand and clasped it. “Your child will go, Mama. Mama has done so much for me. Thank you, Mama. Will I not be sinning to leave you here alone to face so many difficulties, Ma?”

  “I’ve thought it all out, Minke.”

  “Bless me, Ma, that my journey be a safe one, and that I will do well at medical school.”

  “You will do well, Minke. You have gone through so much with me. I understand the problems you face being so close to me. Go tomorrow, leave before dawn. Hire a carriage. No one will go with you. Don’t ever be afraid or discouraged.”

  “I haven’t been inoculated yet, Ma.”

  “Panji Darman had his on board ship too. The shipping agent will arrange everything.”

  I kissed the hand of this compassionate and loving woman, my mother-in-law. After tomorrow would I ever see her again? She let me kiss her hand.

  As we came closer to the house she whispered again: “And don’t forget the task your dead friend gave you.”

  “Who, Ma?”

  “Khouw Ah Soe. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

  “I’ll make sure his letter is delivered.”

  “And so you must. A task given by someone who is dying, Minke, is sacred.”

  “I’ve got a request too, Ma.”

  She stopped. The night was black. The sky was thick with clouds. Not one star was to be seen. Darsam could be heard coughing some distance away.

  “What, Minke? I will help you in your difficulties. You have the right to ask that.”

  “Not that, Ma. Trunodongso and his family.”

  “Don’t worry about him. He has a claim on this business. So too do all the other farmers who were cheated by Mellema.”

  “And what about Mama herself?”

  “Everything will be all right. And another thing—don’t take your wife’s portrait with you.”

  “I miss her, Ma.”

  “No. Your schooling—that picture will only hinder you. Forget her. Mix with other girls, Child, and be proper too. And when you are in Betawi don’t forget about your Mother. You forget that wonderful woman too easily.”

  Darsam coughed again. Mama called him over. “Darsam, look after that man and his family well. When you’re ready, give the two boys some work. Whatever you think is suitable. Put the woman to work in the main kitchen.”

  “Who is he, Nyai?”

  “Your faithful comrade in days to come.”

  Mama went inside and I followed. She sat down in the front parlor where Panji Darman had been long awaiting her.

  * * *

  He had only been away a matter of months carrying out Mama’s instructions, yet Panji Darman now looked fully grown up. He stood up as we walked in and bowed to show his respect to Nyai Ontosoroh.

  “Ya, Rob, you may begin.”

  The youth nodded to me, sat down again, and began in Dutch: “My Mama.” He stopped for a moment, watching for something in Mama’s face. “Please forgive m
y letters. I am not able to write any better than that.”

  “Well enough,” answered Nyai.

  “And not clever at talking either.”

  “You’re quite clever there too.”

  “Minke, please forgive me. You look very tired. Please don’t be angry if I say the wrong thing.”

  Humbly, carefully, avoiding any chance of offending or hurting our feelings, he began to make his report. He first expressed his gratitude that Mama should trust him enough to send him to Holland as Annelies’s escort. He asked forgiveness for all his deficiencies. I don’t know how many times he asked our forgiveness.

  “You have carried out your task as well as you could, Rob. No one could have done better. You have represented Minke and me perhaps even better than we could have ourselves. It is we who are grateful to you. There’s no need to repeat what you have told us in your letters. About my late daughter, there’s no need to mention her again. Your task is over, and so too is that whole affair.”

  Panji Darman looked at Mama, amazed and bewildered. He asked quietly, “Is Mama angry with me?”

  “What about your reports on other matters, Rob?” I helped him.

  Panji Darman understood. He went on: “No, Mama, Minke, I must finish my report. I have not written to you everything that happened. It’s not that I want to remind you of all that past sadness. My task isn’t over until I have finished my report,” and, ignoring what Mama and I had said, he went on.

  Only Panji Darman escorted Annelies to her final resting place. A funeral parlor took care of all the arrangements. The preacher refused to carry out any service because he was unsure about my wife’s religion. Panji Darman himself performed a little Javanese ceremony.

  “My Mama, forgive me if I did wrong.”

  Mama’s countenance didn’t change. I bowed my head deeply as I listened. His words were clear and pure, from a heart that knew no self-interest.

  “Even now I don’t know what Mrs. Ann’s religion was. If it was Islam, please forgive me. I thought it was better to have some ceremony rather than none. I join in the deepest sadness with my Mama, whom I love so deeply, and with Minke, my truest friend. I know better than most just who Mama, Minke, and Mrs. Ann are. All people of character, to whom I owe so much.”

  The more he spoke the more formal it all sounded. And too much trivial detail. Mama cut in: “Thank you for all your kindness, Rob. Minke also thanks you, isn’t that so, Minke?”

  “Yes, Rob.”

  “Now, about the other things.”

  Panji Darman, alias Robert Jan Dapperste, for the millionth time expressed his gratitude for Mama’s offer of putting him through school in the Netherlands. Then there was another request for forgiveness because of his lateness in returning to the Indies.

  “An unnecessary extra expense,” he went on. “The thing was, while I was in Amsterdam I saw a report about preparations to publish a Malay journal. Its name was going to be the Pewarta Wolanda. The report said, Ma, Minke, that this magazine was being published especially for people in the Indies, and that it would use good Malay. It was going to try to develop Malay into an appropriate administrative language and a language of polite social communication. But the most interesting thing was that they were looking for articles about life—real life—in the Indies. So I decided to visit the magazine’s office. And who should I find there? None other than Miss Magda Peters.”

  Panji Darman was sitting in the reception area. Magda Peters was arguing with some Indisch. With all the racket from the printing, he couldn’t make out what they were disagreeing about. As she came outside she quickly recognized Panji Darman, but because he was then asked in to see the editor, she only had time to give him her address.

  The editor turned out to be a veteran of the Aceh War who knew a great deal about the Indies. He had been a lieutenant in the army. He was very happy to have Panji Darman visit him. He was assisted by a Sumatran, Abdul Rivai, a Java Doctor who was continuing his studies in Holland.

  “Forgive me, because I can’t remember that Dutchman’s name now,” said Panji Darman. “He asked me to write about my experiences in the Netherlands, in either Malay or Dutch. I was willing. And in a flash I was thinking about all that had happened in those last few weeks. I would tell the story of the unjust way Europeans had treated Mama’s family. I said I’d be back in about two weeks. The only trouble was that he asked that I write it in proper Malay, not in the uneducated Malay of the marketplace. I wasn’t able to say yes to that. I said I could only write in Dutch. He gave in.

  “Before I left he showed me sample copies of coming editions. They were going to be very beautiful, Mama, Minke, full of attractive photos—just like European magazines. I went back to my lodgings and began to write. That’s why I was late in returning home.”

  Then one day Rob went to visit Miss Magda Peters. Our former teacher was renting a room in a very austere area. There was no carpet in her room. Her fireplace was an old iron stove. Her furniture comprised a bed, a wall cupboard, and a table with two chairs. How different was her situation here compared to how she lived in the Indies—in a nicely furnished house, all to herself. But she didn’t seem ashamed of her poverty.

  “I’d come to ask advice about my article. I’d changed the names of the people in the story. She said that an anticolonial article like that could not be served up to the readers of a colonial magazine; that the magazine was to be published to help broaden the knowledge of those loyal to colonial power, so that the colonial masters would be able to converse occasionally with them.”

  “You are always so well-intentioned, Rob,” Mama cut in, “but you needn’t have done all that.”

  “I felt it was my duty, Mama. I had to do all I could.”

  “You’ve done so much for us, Rob,” I added.

  “If I didn’t finish my tasks properly, I thought, I will live in shame forever, Minke; I would never be able to finish another task ever.”

  Tears glistened in Mama’s eyes as she watched Panji Darman, moved by the loyalty of this simple young man.

  “I didn’t understand what Magda Peters meant,” he went on. “I didn’t get the chance to talk with her again. I excused myself and went to the editor’s office. He read what I had written, not saying a word, and he gave me three guilders as payment.”

  “I’ve never seen that magazine,” I said.

  “Neither have I. I asked him to change the names in the article and use the real ones. He said there was no need. He didn’t ask my address either.”

  “They won’t publish it, Rob,” said Mama.

  “However that might be, at least I tried,” he answered.

  “Is there anything else, Rob?” asked Mama, beginning to get impatient.

  Panji Darman then reported on the use of the money he took with him, including the three guilders he earned from the article. Then: “Now about the business side of things, Mama.”

  The orders were for the cinnamon to be sent unpowdered by Mama’s spice business, Speceraria.

  “Good, Rob. As soon as you’re ready to work, you can contact the cinnamon collectors. Now go and get some rest.” Mama stood up and went upstairs. She seemed very tired.

  “Good night, sleep well, Mama.”

  She didn’t answer, but disappeared from sight.

  “We’ll meet again tomorrow, Rob. Rest now.” I didn’t give him a chance to speak. As soon as he left, I locked the door. Then I went out to the back and locked the back door from outside.

  The clouds had disappeared from the heavens. The scattered stars sparkled peacefully. I went to the warehouse to have one more look at Trunodongso.

  The children and his wife were asleep. Truno himself was lying in a somewhat uncomfortable position, not yet asleep. As the light from a wall lamp struck him, his eyes blinked open and shut. He didn’t see me approaching. As soon as he saw the shadows, he became vigilant; then: “Oh, Ndoro,” he said, and sat up with some difficulty.

  “Feeling better?” I asked.


  “My land, Ndoro,” he said anxiously. “They will have taken it by now.”

  “Hush, don’t think about that. Get better first. Nyai will look after you all. You and your children will be able to work here until you want to go back to your village.”

  “Ndoro promised to help me.”

  “You were too impatient. I hadn’t succeeded yet, and you were already up to all kinds of things. Didn’t I warn you before?”

  “I was bound by an oath, Ndoro.”

  “My promise to you is still in force. But your oath, your promise to these other people, has only brought disaster. All right now, get some sleep. Don’t worry about these things now. Nyai will take care of everything. Don’t ever talk about Tulangan. Don’t say that you’ve ever met me. Don’t go anywhere without Darsam’s permission. They will still be looking for you. Your mustache and beard—shave them off—everything.”

  “Good, Ndoro.”

  As I came out of the warehouse I bumped into Darsam, who never seemed to sleep.

  “Not asleep yet, Young Master?”

  “And you, why aren’t you asleep, Darsam?”

  “Young Master, I don’t know, I’m always restless, ever since my hand’s been like this.”

  “Nyai has said you will stay here.”

  “But what work can I do like this? I just end up wandering back and forth like a hungry mouse.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “To work, Young Master, but I can’t. Must I be just like a tree, doing no work but forever sucking strength from the earth?”

  “You’ll slowly adjust to your hand, Darsam. You’ll be able to work again. Dr. Martinet says not all your fingers will be useless. Some of them won’t be able to move, but not all of them.”

  I grabbed his shoulder and ushered him towards his house. We went inside. Everyone was asleep. He turned up the light.