Child of All Nations (42 page)

Once again there was a trial. The court wasn’t packed this time The public’s interest in the case had waned. But one extraordinary thing did happen: For the first time the
Soerabaiaasch Nieuws
printed a photograph on its front page, a photograph of Annelies wearing her diamond necklace. But it was a great pity the caption was so sensational:
THE BEAUTIFUL VICTIM OF A STRUGGLE OVER AN INHERITANCE
.

What fantastic events and experiences lay behind that photograph. And how beautiful was all that had tied the two of us together for those months. So little was contained in that caption. And it hurt even more when Maarten Nijman came to our house to gloat over his success.

“Ah, we can’t keep up with our orders from other publishers, magazines and papers, from outside Surabaya as well. They all want to hire the negatives.” He didn’t bother with our feelings; he was too involved with the photo’s success. He went on: “The royalties I’m charging are way too low; there are so many orders. Some would even pay three times as much.’

I no longer just hated but was now sickened by this man who once was a god to me. The more pictures of my wife appeared in the press, the more I was sickened by the behavior of all the press. They were concerned only with trading on our feelings. Their profits and their success made them forget there was somebody who didn’t like what they were doing. But there was nothing we could do.

Even with all the publicity, the trial did not attract much interest. But on the other hand, the pictures of my wife started to appear in people’s houses, in the road-stalls and restaurants, even
in the hotels. Anyway, that’s what one Malay-language paper reported.

In this sickened mood we faced the trial.

The trial became convoluted and went on and on. The judge was Mr. B. Jansen, the same one as before.

Ah Tjong looked thin, pale, and bent. His pigtail had gone white. He wore silk clothes that were already far too big for him. His eyes were sunken and he hardly ever lifted his face.

Ah Tjong’s platoon of prostitutes was paraded out again as witnesses, including Maiko. Fatso alias Babah Kong alias Jan Tantang was also a witness.

I’m not, of course, going to cover the whole course of the trial, which went into the same trivial details as the earlier one. Just let it be said that the proceedings became so caught up with detail that the court had to adjourn several times. And it got even worse.

But the adjournments didn’t spare me from the courtroom. For me there was another trial. I was a witness in a new case, that of Robert Suurhof.

He sat in the dock with the proprietor of Ezekiel’s jewelry shop. Myself, Robert Jan Dapperste, and a few other school friends were witnesses to his putting the stolen ring on Annelies’s finger at our wedding. The family of the corpse whose grave was robbed were also witnesses. So too was the graveyard watchman who suffered Suurhof’s thuggery.

The trial went smoothly, even though Suurhof gave the most indirect and complicated answers. But he couldn’t escape from admitting his own deeds.

And behind me, Mrs. Suurhof never stopped crying and sniffing. Her sadness was swept away by laughter in the courtroom, caused by the question and answer about the reason Robert Jan Dapperste changed his name to Panji Darman.

My friend frowned sullenly, his honor offended, sickened by the behavior of the court. And the laughter and giggles were silenced by his challenging answer: “It is my right to change my name to whatever I like. It did not cost you gentlemen one cent.”

I liked his answer.

Robert Suurhof’s trial lasted only an hour and a half; he was sentenced to eighteen months in jail on top of the time he’d spent on remand. Ezekiel was sentenced to eight months for receiving stolen goods.

As soon as the trial ended everyone stood except Mrs. Suurhof. My eyes met Robert’s; his shone with revenge. He let me see his hatred. He even bared his teeth at me. He showed the same hatred to Panji Darman.

Mrs. Suurhof called out to him again and again. He pretended not to hear and walked off quickly with the police guards to Kalisosok jail.

On the way home to Wonokromo Panji Darman began: “He wants revenge, Minke.”

“I’m going to Betawi as soon as possible, Rob. And you’ll be protected by Darsam.”

“Even so, Minke, he’s still dangerous.”

“He’s not the only one who is a man, Rob.”

The conversation ended but our hearts remained anxious.

“Yes, we must be more careful,” I said soon after. “People like him can be nasty and treacherous. Rob, I liked your answer in court. I felt offended too.”

“Yes. I had to take a stand against those honorable tuans.”

“Good for you, Rob. All the best to you.” I held out my hand. He took my hand, and without realizing it, we were embracing each other like little children taking an oath for life.

In the trial sessions that followed in Ah Tjong’s case, the proceedings concentrated on Jan Tantang, Minem, and Darsam.

Jan Tantang explained that he had never met Ah Tjong. He had never even laid eyes on him. He was confronted with Ah Tjong’s prostitutes but they all denied having met him or knowing him. Ah Tjong’s gardener said he did see a fat man walking calmly through Ah Tjong’s garden on the day of Herman Mellema’s murder. The man did look like Jan Tantang, he said, except he only saw him from behind. He thought the man was just another customer out getting some fresh air. The man was wearing European clothes and had no pigtail. The gardener thought he must have been a Chinese Christian, perhaps the family of the head of the local Chinese community. Not only had he no desire to speak to the fat man, but he would not dare to do so, so he didn’t pay the man any more attention.

The questioning then went to the matter of relations between Robert Mellema and Ah Tjong on the one hand and Mellema’s relations with Jan Tantang on the other. Jan Tantang explained
that he did not know Robert Mellema, though he had heard the name. He admitted he had been on Ah Tjong’s property on the day of Herman Mellema’s death, but claimed he had never set foot inside the house.

“I ran into Ah Tjong’s yard to escape from the machete of a certain Madurese,” he said, “a Madurese that people say has the name of Darsam.”

“Who told you that was his name?”

Jan Tantang thought for some time, trying to wriggle out of the question. The judge’s persistence forced him to admit: “Minem told me.”

The questioning about Minem caused some laughter.

Darsam admitted he wanted to teach the fat man a lesson because he thought he was killer paid to murder Darsam himself.

“My duty is to guard the business and the family,” he said, “and I have always tried to carry out that task to the best of my ability. I am paid to do my job.”

He was pressed on the question of whether he intended actually to kill Jan Tantang, because hadn’t he already killed a man, and wasn’t he also suspected of being involved in the fighting against the Marechausee and police on an earlier occasion? He answered: “I only wanted to find out who was his boss; and if he was out to kill, then I would have done him in on the spot. That would be the fate of any hired killer.”

“And why were you suspicious of Jan Tantang?”

The convoluted questioning finally made its way to me. I told the story of being followed from Bojonegoro railway station to Wonokromo. My suspicions, I said, were passed on to others as well. Jan Tantang confirmed what had happened as a result, in front of the Telingas’ house.

The trial had been going on a week already. Medical school would be starting in only six weeks’ time. The questions and answers went on as if they would never end. I waited expectantly for Robert Mellema’s letter to be read in court. It seemed I would have to wait even longer for that hoped-for event.

Days came and went. Still there was no sign that the trial was nearing an end. The whole issue of Herman Mellema’s death was still not getting closer to any kind of resolution. Instead the court headed off once again in the direction of the internal affairs of Nyai Ontosoroh’s family: How did she treat her children? Straight away
Mama refused to answer all such questions and proclaimed that how she brought up her children was her own affair.

Then abruptly there came a question like a clap of thunder: “Mr. Minke, what are your feelings towards Nyai Ontosoroh alias Sanikem?”

My blood boiled. Mama went red as she watched my lips. But they did not succeed in making us the object of more laughter. The trial seemed to be trying to paint a certain picture: There was indeed no connection between Jan Tantang and either Robert Mellema or Ah Tjong. And so, precisely because of that, the questions were now being fired off in our direction. And Robert Mellema’s letter still did not appear. The prosecutor did all he could to discover what orders Nyai had given to Darsam.

Mama steadfastly refused to answer any questions that were intended to reflect upon her policies as manager and owner of the business. She restricted herself to answering that she had never given any orders to anyone to act against people, and she certainly had never ordered that trespassers into the villages on company land be killed.

A month had passed. Then a month and a week, two weeks, three weeks. I would not be able to start medical school that academic year.

Then I was asked: whether I had ever received an order to take action against someone I was suspicious of while working for the business.

“What does the prosecutor mean by ‘someone suspicious’?”

“Someone who was going to do harm to Nyai and you yourself.”

“So far I have never seen the person who has done harm against us,” I said.

“So there is such a person?”

“Yes, there is.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“And what harm has he caused you?”

“He took my wife away from me.”

It was becoming clearer. They were trying to prove that Nyai and I and Darsam were involved in a conspiracy against someone. Against whom, I didn’t know. But I concluded definitely that the court was out to get us.

At home I told Mama what I was thinking.

“Yes, they’re pressuring us and deliberately wasting time. Your suspicions are right.”

“But why are they doing it?”

Mama began to explain. The day before I was brought back from Semarang, there had been a visit by three people: the government accountant, who was a Pure, and two assistants, Mixed-Bloods. They inspected the business’s books, as well as the stables, rice lands, and fields, and the dairy too. Mama showed them the audit certificate from Mr. Dalmeyer, but they ignored it.

“Is there something wrong with the examination made by Mr. Dalmeyer?” Mama asked, and the government accountant just replied by giving her a new audit form. “So, Child,” Mama went on, “it seems the business will soon be taken over. Perhaps Engineer Mellema will be here shortly or, if not, at least the person he appoints to carry it out.”

“But what’s that got to do with the trial, Ma?”

“If they can make us look bad in the public’s eye, then people will think the business has been run badly as well—run by bad people. So it will seem right that someone like me should be kicked out. Engineer Mellema will be able to take over much more easily. The public will be on his side. They will think it’s right that we be gotten rid of.”

“Could somebody with education behave as deviously as that?”

“The more educated the person, the more educated the deviousness.”

Yes, I had to learn to think like that. Before it had been a kind of hidden knowledge I had. Now it seemed I was going to see the final proof.

“Yes, Minke, you’ve got to learn to think as daringly as that. They can even do worse things than that, Child.” Her words were pronounced slowly, as if nothing had happened at all. “In the ins and outs of this life, Child, what you studied at school was just children’s games. You are adult enough now to understand that the law of the jungle rules our lives, amongst them and amongst ourselves also. Soon you will see, Child, that what I am saying now is on target.”

I was coming to understand better and better: For the thousandth time and for always we have to keep on fighting back. Just
like the Filipinos, who did not know what the future held for them, yet still knew there was something that had to be done. And what was it that had to be done? Yes, they had to fight back.

That night I went off to see Kommer and Maarten Nijman to show them Robert’s letter to Mama—the copy made and approved by the prosecutor’s office. I even helped Kommer with the task of putting into Malay the bit that concerned Robert’s plotting with Ah Tjong. That night, also, the two men wrote commentaries and published them in special editions, separate from their newspapers, which were distributed before dawn.

Kommer’s comments were very courageous: The court should not keep pursuing and persecuting the witnesses, especially when it was clear that they were only witnesses and not the accused. The court should return to the crux of the matter, namely the role of Ah Tjong and Robert Mellema in Herman Mellema’s death on the one hand, and the Jan Tantang incident on the other.

At the next session of the trial Kommer and Nijman were called as witnesses. They were each asked where they got the quotes from Robert Mellema’s letter. Both refused to give an explanation. Kommer was pressed harder: “Was Robert Mellema’s letter written in Malay?”

“Dutch.”

“If in Dutch, where did you get the right to translate it into Malay and publish it without using a sworn translator from the court, because that letter is presently evidence in this trial.”

“As far as I am aware,” answered Kommer, “that letter was not written for the court but addressed to Nyai Ontosoroh. It is obvious then that it is not the sole prerogative of the court to possess and control the letter, let alone translate it. As long as I have been a journalist I have never seen a law saying otherwise.”

“Do you not understand that the contents of your special edition could influence the course of the trial?”

“It is up to the court whether or not it wishes to be influenced. Everyone is free to reject or accept such influence. And anyway, it is clear now that the letter does in fact exist.”