Child of All Nations (13 page)
So far I had not found any ground upon which to stand and analyze this problem. All I could do was listen.
“The recognition of Japan as an equal has produced a number of problems,” he went on. “The Chinese of Singapore have already become restless. We don’t need that sort of thing in the Indies, especially not in Java. Be frank, Mr. Minke, do you agree with the ideas of Khouw Ah Soe?”
“In some things he is right.”
“Very true. But the truth does not necessarily bring any advantage.” He quickly set up defenses. “I think you would prefer to support your country than a truth that would hurt it.”
Another point that wasn’t without grounds! I had never thought about any of this. I just had to listen.
He left after he was convinced that he had influenced me. I had to promise to bring some new articles to the paper.
Mama laughed when she heard the story. “You’ve forgotten already, Child; everything colonial is from the devil. There has never been any colonialist that has cared anything about our people. They are afraid of China itself. They’re jealous.”
I forced myself to think how all these things came together: the progress Japan was making, the restlessness among the Chinese Young Generation, the rebellion of the Filipino natives against Spain and then the United States, the jealousy of the colonial Netherlands Indies towards China, the colonial hatred of Japan. And why wasn’t the Filipino rebellion reported in all the newspapers?
And to the north, Siam was crying out because its silk, so popular in the Indies, was being pushed out of the market by Japan’s cheaper and shinier silk. In the land of my own livelihood, Japanese handicrafts were surreptitiously entering the market. The Javanese makers of blouses, combs, and brushes were losing their share of the market, because the Japanese goods were cheaper and shinier. But the Javanese were silent. They did not cry out. They did not understand why their livelihood was drying up.
And the women of Southeast Asia could not live without
combs, brushes, and tweezers to catch head lice—all made in Japan.
With my inner eye I scattered my vision over my own surroundings. There was no movement at all. All Java was fast asleep, dreaming. And I was confused, angry, aware but impotent.
S
omething completely unexpected happened: a letter arrived from Robert Mellema.
I was working in the office at the time. Mama called me from her desk and pushed the day’s mail across for me to read. From Robert, from Panji Darman, from Miriam de la Croix.
There was no address on the envelope. On the stamp was a picture of the sea and coconut palms. The printing on the stamp said Hawaii. The postmark was illegible.
My faraway Mama
, it started.
I didn’t know why that phrase filled my heart with emotion and my eyes with tears. The cry of a regretful child.
“What’s the matter, Child?” asked Mama.
“This letter is not for me, Ma. It is written for Mama and Mama alone.”
“Read it,” she encouraged me.
“I’ll read it slowly, yes, Ma?” and I began to read aloud:
I know, Ma, that you will probably never forgive me. That’s up to you. Even so, Ma, your son Rob, so far away now, begs
your forgiveness, both in this world and the next. Ma, my Mama. Sun, moon, and stars have all been witnesses to my sins against you.
And what meaning does my life have now? As low as your work might ever be, you will always be far more honorable than this child of yours, who has fought against you and caused you much sorrow.
I have heard the village people say: The greatest forgiveness is that which a child asks of his mother; the greatest of all sins is that of a child against his mother. I am the most sinful of children, Ma. Your son Robert needs your most profound forgiveness.
I glanced from the corners of my eyes at Mama. The look on her face hadn’t changed. She kept on with her work, calmly, as if she weren’t listening.
I know my Mama so well, so I know you won’t want to read these writings of mine. No matter. That is a risk I must take. What is important is that at least there has arisen the intent to ask forgiveness of the person who gave birth to me, who has shed blood for me, who has groaned with pain for my life’s sake, and that intent has now been put into words. So if you do not answer this letter or even if you don’t read it, if I remain alive, I will know you have forgiven me, even though you may never say it. If I die in the near future, that will be a sign that you did not forgive me.
Once, on a ship, someone said to me: You can ask forgiveness of God at any time at all, if you sin against Him. Sins against your fellow man are different again; it is much more difficult to get him to forgive you. God is all-compassionate; mankind is uncompassionate.
I am not telling you where I am. What would be the point? It would only cause problems. I am on a ship. And I don’t need to give its name, nationality, or the flag it is flying under.
After what happened in Ah Tjong’s house, I ran. By chance a horse cart was passing by. I jumped aboard and headed for Tanjung Perak. I was able to get aboard a junk heading for Manila. I did whatever work I was given, even that of cleaning
the toilets—everyone’s toilet, not just the one I used myself.
Complete humiliation—that is the condition that befell me as soon as I was away from you, my Mama. I could do nothing to resist what befell me. I had to stay alive. And what kind of life is it, Ma, crawling around people’s toilets like this?
I was only a few days in Manila. Attacks by bandits threw the whole harbor into confusion. Many sailors disappeared without a trace. From Manila I traveled on board a small ship to Hong Kong. In that small, crowded city I got a job as a gardener in the house of an English officer. Soon after, he found out that I had caught a certain disease and he threw me out.
Yes, Ma, I am ill. The easiest thing for me to do was to visit a sinshe, a Chinese medicine man. He said I had caught a “dirty disease” and that it was getting worse. I handed myself over to him. He treated me with potions and acupuncture until I looked fresh and healthy again. In the meantime I had become a vagabond, owning nothing at all. All I had was the clothes on my body. This is all a punishment from Mama, so I must accept it.
Because I could no longer pay the sinshe, I had to find another job on a ship. I was amazed that I was still allowed to live. I sailed all over the world, going from ship to ship. No one recognized or knew me, because I always used different names. People didn’t care whether I was human, animal, or devil.
But then the symptoms returned. I did everything I could to avoid destruction. As soon as I was in Hong Kong again I looked up the man who had treated me before. Treat me until I am cured, I begged. But he told me something new: The disease can only be controlled; there is no real cure. I knew I would be tied to him forever. It’s not that I didn’t try the doctors. None of them were able to help me, not even to ease the suffering a bit. My heart shriveled up—all I could see hovering before me was death. Mama, it was you, Mama, that I then remembered. Nothing can help me except your forgiveness.
My illness meant I had to stay close to my sinshe in Hong Kong. I had to have more money. He said I would have to visit him at last once a month. My livelihood was not so generous to bring me to Hong Kong every month. And to work in Hong Kong itself was not easy for me, because I didn’t want to be
known to anybody as the child of anybody, the citizen of any country. I had no address and did not want to have an address.
Mama, I know my disease is a death sentence for me.
I talked to another medicine man and his words frightened me: There is no cure, he said; there is no one strong enough to survive for more than two years. How frightening, Ma, two years for someone as young as me. Mama, my Mama…
Nyai Ontosoroh stood up and left. Before leaving the room, she turned to me and said:
“There are some other letters. For you.”
I didn’t go on reading Rob’s letter. I picked up the other letters from Mama’s desk. From Betawi, from the Stovia Medical School: I had been accepted as a student beginning the next academic year; details were to follow.
Was it Robert’s letter or the one from Stovia that made Mama so unhappy that she had to leave the room? I didn’t know.
There was a letter from Robert to Annelies. Suddenly I realized that he knew nothing of what had happened to the family. The letter carried the same stamp as the first one. There was no date nor mention of place.
Ann, Annelies, my little sister. I have now traveled around the world as I once dreamed of doing. More than twice, Ann. I have set my feet down in all the great ports of the world. And I have met with too many people. Not one has ever invited me to visit their house. They all look upon me as being not of the same species, from a people too far away and too strange, perhaps like a race of animals.
I had wanted to be a sailor. Now I am a sailor. But I am not happy. Even in the most meaningless of jobs, I am still considered incapable. My thoughts are always going back and forth between Mama and you. You know the reasons. Until now you have refused to talk to me. Yes, Ann, I understand, understand only too well. And I know too why people never invite me to their houses. Your brother is indeed not worthy of being spoken to by you. He is only an animal, lower still than the horses you ride.
The incident in the reed-marshes continues to haunt me. Forgive me, Ann, forgive me.…
At that moment I had to stop reading a moment and reflect again on Annelies’s story. So it was true, what she’d told me, that she had been raped by her brother. I read on.
I pray always that you may be happy, Ann. Perhaps indeed Minke is the right man for you, despite Suurhof’s making fun of him. I think Robert Suurhof will turn out to be no better than me.
I have seen all kinds of people now, Ann: Indians, Chinese, Europeans, Japanese, Arabs, Hawaiians, Malays, Africans…and Ann, there is none among their women, young or old, as beautiful as you, as glorious as you. You are a pearl among women. Your husband will be such a happy man.…
I shoved the letter quickly into my pocket. No, I must not think about Annelies anymore.
When Mama came back in, she did not ask anything. She sat down and continued her work. I went on reading Robert’s letter to her.
My contract with life is for two years, Ma. Who knows whether the sinshe’s prediction will turn out to be right. When I left him, I swore that once I boarded a ship, I would never set foot on land again. I will stay on board until I receive your forgiveness.
The letter ended.
“Where should I put the letter, Ma?”
“Burn it. What’s the use of saving such a letter?” she said without lifting her eyes, without diverting her attention from the papers before her.
So I put it in my pocket as well. There was indeed an extraordinary amount of mail that day. There was a letter from Panji Darman addressed to me:
Minke, my good friend
,
There is something I must tell you; I think you should know it. But first, forgive me, as I don’t know whether this is the right time to tell you or not.
I was walking one day in the Java Docks at Amsterdam harbor. I saw a young, strong worker, and he clearly wasn’t a Pure-Blood Dutchman. He was pushing a cart. Do you know who he was? Robert Suurhof! He stopped, startled at seeing me. He pulled down his hat to hide his eyes. He was ashamed of his work. Then he went back to pushing the cartload of goods. I called out to him. He kept on going.
I followed him and called out again: “Rob! Rob Suurhof! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me already?”
He stopped, turned, greeted me: “You? When did you arrive? It’s a pity I’m working just now. Come to my place later. After seven in the evening, all right?”
He gave me an address. And I never found that address, let alone the person. I went again to the wharves. I asked several people whether they knew a harbor worker, a young Indisch. I knew Suurhof was registered as a Dutch citizen, but his citizenship could be of no use for identification here. They didn’t know what I meant by Indisch or Indies Native. A laborer, a youth, and dark, I said. They mentioned several names but none of them was Robert Suurhof. There is no one by the name of Robert Suurhof known here, they said. There was one worker from the Indies, someone said, dark, not called Suurhof, but he was arrested about three days ago by the police. He was working in the Java Docks at the time.
I went to the Harbor District Police Station. It was true; Suurhof had been arrested and was being returned to the Indies. They said he was suspected of assault and robbery in Surabaya.
He may already be back in Surabaya by the time you receive this letter, Minke.
I have also met Miss Magda Peters. I will tell you about it another time. I will write to Mama about things to do with her new company, Speceraria.
My greetings and respect to her and to you too.
The letter from Miriam de la Croix was from the Netherlands. There was also a letter from Herbert de la Croix with it. Here is what it said:
My dear Mr. Minke
,
With this letter, both Miriam and I, even if somewhat
belatedly, take our leave of you. We have left the Indies and are now in the Netherlands. We are truly saddened by all that has befallen you and your family. We ourselves are very much to blame for what happened to you all, though our intentions were good and honorable.…
I stopped reading and thought over each incident again. There were no grounds for Herbert de la Croix and his daughter to feel they shared any blame. Why, they had gone as far as sending us a famous jurist, even though he had failed. And why was their letter so excessively polite? They had defended me when I was dismissed from school, they had helped me to obtain a place in the Civil Service Academy at Stovia. They had kept up correspondence with me all this time. Mr. de la Croix himself had even put his position on the line over my case. They had no reason to feel guilty.
