Child of All Nations (17 page)

The anonymous tract Magda Peters had given me spoke about them as the cork upon which the kingdom of the Netherlands floats. And what kind of cork-float? The pamphlet said it was a cork that will be forced to sink one day when its buoyancy has been soaked up. The whole of the kingdom’s and the colony’s life floated upon that cork. Any and every foot could step upon its head and shoulders, just as Governor-General
Daendels
had literally done long ago; they, the peasants, would accept every burden without protest. They would not complain, it went on to say, because for centuries they had known only one kind of fate: the fate of a peasant.

As soon as we entered the area around Sidoarjo, sugar cane enveloped the train, nothing but sugar cane, rippling in waves like a green sea upon purple-green sands. All of it would be cut and carried off to the sugar mills. This, it seemed, was the land where Nyai Ontosoroh was born. Everything centered on sugar. Even so, not everything tasted sweet. Mama’s own experiences had already proved that. Perhaps I shall be able to discover other things.

Our destination was the family of Sastro Kassier, Mama’s elder brother. I did not know much about him. From what I knew I wrote up these notes:

The plague had attacked the village of Tulangan. Every day people fell down, sprawled out dead, including Dr. Van Niel, who was brought in from Surabaya. The Tulangan clinic, just a ten-by-thirteen-foot room, could do nothing. After burying their neighbors each morning, people would roll over and join their friends in death.

Sastrotomo, Sanikem’s father, died; his children too, except for Paiman, Sanikem’s elder brother. (Nyai Ontosoroh was originally called Sanikem.) Paiman ran away from the house to escape the epidemic that was sweeping away all around him. He knew his father and the brothers and sisters who had died had not been buried yet. He ran. Ran.

He didn’t realize it then, but the plague bacteria had already begun to multiply within him.

He wandered aimlessly. In the evening he collapsed in the darkness far outside the sugar-factory complex. He knew he must keep walking but his strength was gone. He rolled his body under
a tamarind tree. He remembered that the tree stood at an intersection. The narrow road to the right led to the graveyard. He did not want to end up there. He must live. He did not want to die just yet.

His body was burning with fever. Pain tormented his extremities. The night was dense with darkness; there was no wind. Those eyes, ah, why are those eyes always pulled towards the graveyard? How many of his acquaintances had been planted there like mandarin seedlings? and mangos and guavas?—seedlings that would never grow or sprout, vanishing, sucked up by the earth. Twenty people? Twenty-five? He could not count. His head was aflame.

In the darkness and stillness of the night, from time to time he could see tongues of fire leaping up from the graveyard, as if blown up into the sky to pierce the darkness of the windless night. They reached their peak, then fell back in a long curve, so long—as if they were flying away to vanish into nowhere. He saw other fiery flames pointing back down towards the villages, including Tulangan.

He was afraid. And his body could not carry his longing to be away from this frightening place. There was only one thing that proved he was still alive: the never-subsiding shout in his heart—live, live, I must live, live, live!

The morning dew woke him. In some obscure way, he felt that the dew had eased his fever. As the sun began to rise, he found himself approached by an old man. He heard the old man’s voice, full of compassion, whisper: “So young as this! It’s not the right time for you to die yet, Child. You probably have never been out of our village before now.”

The man had a white beard and mustache. Paiman wanted very much to ask for help, but even his tongue would not work for him.

He dimly saw the old grandfather take down his woven rattan shoulder bag. From inside it he took a bottle. He poured something into Paiman’s mouth, then went away. About four hours later, he returned and poured liquid from the bottle into Paiman’s mouth once more. Like some god who had descended from heaven, the old man looked healthy and fresh amid the squalor of the epidemic. There was no fear in his face.

The bottle was empty. He put it back in his bag.

Paiman was saved because of that liquid. He didn’t know what the old man had made him drink; it tasted like kerosene. Several more times the old man returned to minister to him.

That was Paiman, who was now called Sastro Kassier, and he was more successful than Sastrotomo, his father, the father of Sanikem alias Nyai Ontosoroh.

Sastrotomo never succeeded in becoming paymaster as he had hoped. He was never thought worthy of consideration. Because he knew that the new manager would not adhere to the agreement made between Sastrotomo and Herman Mellema, Mellema had gone to Tulangan to ask that Sastrotomo’s son be taken on as an apprentice clerk. He was to be trained so that later he could become paymaster. Mellema did not tell Mama about this act of conscience.

The new manager of the sugar factory had come to Wonokromo a few times. Herman Mellema used such opportunities to pass on “aid” to his “brother-in-law.” It was through such visits that Mama eventually found out: Her elder brother had quickly advanced from being a clerk to an apprentice cashier and then had become full paymaster.

Silently, Mama felt proud to have a brother who had achieved such a high position—the only Native paymaster in a sugar factory in all of Java.

On the day of his promotion, the factory put on a small celebration. Paiman, who had changed his name to Sastrowongso—meaning descendant or with the blood of a scribe—when he married, announced another name change: Sastro Kassier with two
s
’s. His new name was published in the newspapers as a determination of the governor-general.

He had eight children.

Several times Paiman alias Sastrowongso alias Sastro Kassier came to Wonokromo. Mama always received him happily. But as time went on, his visits became less and less frequent. His own position was becoming stronger. After Herman Mellema’s death, he was never seen again at Wonokromo.

He did come with his whole family when Annelies and I were married. That time too, Mama received him very affably. His youngest child, a girl, was two or three years younger than Annelies.
Twice I saw her from a distance. I guessed that was how Sanikem had looked when she was a girl. Her body, as well as her face, eyes, lips, and nose, were all exactly the same.

From the moment we boarded the train I suspected: Perhaps Mama isn’t going to Sidoarjo for a holiday but to ask for Sastro Kassier’s permission for his youngest daughter, Surati, and me to marry. No, Ma, it would be impossible for Minke to marry and to live with a woman who was still pure Javanese. Impossible, Ma. I don’t mean to insult my mother or any woman who is still fully Javanese in her thoughts and customs. But I must make my own choice. You too, Ma, would never be able to take a husband who was fully a Native. European ideas, whether a little or a lot, have changed the way we look at things, have provided us with new requirements that must be met. And the matter of husband and wife wasn’t just one of man and woman. You know that too, Ma. If the purpose of this visit is indeed to propose on my behalf—however beautiful and honorable are your intentions—you must forgive me: I cannot marry her. I just couldn’t do it!

These suspicions and presentiments made me anxious, vigilant. On the other hand Mama seemed quite merry, like a young girl. Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, she lost that gloomy fearsomeness that had dominated her all this time. She was becoming more cheerful; she laughed, smiled, and chattered. She was no longer engrossed in her business, which was soon to be stolen away by Maurits Mellema.

There was no one from Sastro Kassier’s family to meet us at the station. Mama had not told them of our visit. Kommer hailed a carriage and offered to escort us to Tulangan. Mama laughed and refused. “Tulangan is still a long way from here, Mr. Kommer.”

“I know Tulangan, Nyai.”

“Yes?”

“It is no more than five or six miles,” he said.

“You can come and visit if you like. But not now, please.” And our carriage trotted off towards Tulangan.

Sugar cane, sugar cane, sugar cane for almost the whole length of our journey. The unshirted farmers stopped along the road to take a look at who was riding in the carriage. Small, stark-naked children, wet-nosed, filthy, were playing along the
edge of the road, looking after livestock. I would have been among them had I been born into a farmer’s family.

“This is what my country is like, Child. Only cane. It is true what you said; everything revolves around sugar, whether evil or dreams. There are more than ten sugar mills in my country, Nyo. When the factory starts to mill, there’s a big festival, nothing but festivals and parties. Everyone stakes their wealth and their reputations as fighters. Everywhere people lie sprawled in the streets, drunk. And on the gambling mats, children, wives, young brothers and sisters, all change hands as the wages of bets. You need to have a look at one sometime. It’s a pity the milling season isn’t about to start.”

The driver tried to turn around to catch the words he couldn’t understand. He asked, “Yes,
Ndoro
?”

“No, Man, I wasn’t speaking to you.”

I was amazed that Mama followed Dutch practice and called the driver Man. The word did indeed mean man or person, yet I sensed that it still contained a derogatory element: It was used only when talking to lower-class men. The problem was that there was no neutral way to speak to such people in Javanese and Malay. Perhaps this is an aspect of the poverty of my mother tongue, a poverty that forces people to become accustomed to constantly degrading others. Why does my mind go crazy like this? Why won’t it stop looking for work?

“Tomorrow or the day after, Child, you can take a look at the villages. Didn’t you say yesterday that Kommer had accused you of not knowing your own people? Actually I feel he was accusing me too. He is not totally mistaken. Perhaps he was a bit extreme, but I understand what he meant. He loves all that is Native so much, except their deficiencies and ignorance. He loves all that was ever possessed, created, or known by his mother’s ancestors. On the train, he spoke with tremendous enthusiasm about the ancient Hindu temples. He said that he once invited Jean Marais to go on a trip with him to see some. Jean laughed. He didn’t understand the significance of these temples. Kommer tried to explain. Jean only laughed more. Kommer became cranky, and took his revenge by belittling the monuments of France that the rest of the world so glorifies.”

Not an interesting subject. Suddenly Mama asked, “Have you ever seen one of these temples? Neither have I. They were
built to last forever; there must be something about them that their builders wanted to immortalize.”

The conversation was becoming even less interesting.

“Have you ever read anything about Paris? about France?”

“Nothing specifically, no, Ma.”

“I don’t know why, but sometimes that country interests me very much. I can’t imagine what it is like, but I’m still interested.”

Perhaps it was Jean Marais that Mama was really interested in. But I didn’t say anything.

“And Kommer?”

“What about Kommer?”

“What do you think of him?” I asked, fishing.

“He has a lot of enthusiasm. That’s all. In a few years, five or ten perhaps, you will far outshine him.”

“Ma, I don’t mean that.”

“Shh! You’d be pleased if I accepted his proposal?”

“What is it that Ma wants?” Mama’s face went red like that of a blushing virgin. How happy she was at that moment.

It seemed that Sastro Kassier was very well known in Sidoarjo. The carriage driver knew exactly where his house was. It was a stone house, a respectable house. It was located on the Tulangan sugar-mill complex. Sastro Kassier was the only Native to have a house inside the complex.

The front door was closed, but the windows were open. Beyond the curtains we could see a reception area that wasn’t at all small, and furniture one usually finds in the houses of Europeans. The differences were few: No books were in evidence, whereas in a European house they usually took pride of place among the furniture.

“Yu! Yu Djumilah!” Nyai called out several times. She was calling for her sister-in-law, the wife of Sastro Kassier. I had never seen her, though she had come to my wedding, but I knew her husband.

A woman, looking much older than Mama, opened the door. She stood there not understanding what was happening.

“Yu Milah, have you forgotten me? Sanikem?”

“Aiai! Sis Ikem, is this Sis Ikem? Come in. Come in. Still so young too?” She ran back and forth welcoming us, and invited us to sit on the settee of which they were so proud.

“Yes, this is how we live. Please don’t compare it to your house, Sis Ikem.”

The carriage driver took down all our things and carried them inside the house. Djumilah herself prepared a room. She came back into the parlor and began again: “Yes, just a simple room, please don’t be disappointed.” She always spoke in Javanese, the only language she knew. “You must be very tired. Let me get you something to drink,” and she disappeared to the back.

Not long after that a pockmarked girl came out, bending and bowing as she brought out a tray of drinks. She went down on her knees as she approached us.

From the back came Djumilah’s voice: “Have a drink, Sis. There just happens to be water boiling.”

The pockmarked girl put the drinks out on the table, shifting them to their proper places.

Nyai got up from her chair and had a look around. Above one of the doors were two pictures of Her Majesty Wilhelmina, a sign that two graduates from the Factory School lived here. No doubt two of Sastro Kassier’s children, even though it was unusual for children—boys or girls—from small towns like Tulangan to go to school.

After having a good look around, Nyai went to the other room. I could hear Djumilah’s voice, loud and harsh, but friendly: “Yes, Sis, this shirt was woven in Gedangan. There are no weavers in Tulangan. There is no cotton grown here. Very nice?” Laughter. “If you’d like, I’ll order one for you later.… Yes, yes, I’m amazed too, Sis, why the factories here don’t want to make shirts like this. They’d be much better, too, of course.”