Footsteps (25 page)

Mir Frischboten raised another issue:

Her letter reminded me of what happened to the girl from Jepara. Was it Mir’s questions that were supplying information, consciously or otherwise, to van Kollewijn? Governor-General Rosenboom felt it was necessary to silence our friend in Jepara by condemning her to the matrimonial bedroom. What about Mir? And wasn’t it possible that I was also being used by people in Holland as a source of information? At the very least, were they getting what I had received from Ter Haar?

So what was Mir Frischboten really up to? Who else received letters like this?

And as for me, why was I never able to answer any questions based on my own knowledge? How was it that they knew far more about what was happening in the Indies than I, and I lived here?

But as usual all these questions went by the board because of my studies and work. I never answered Mir Frischboten’s letter. And I didn’t enquire of Ter Haar about the sultan from the Moluccas. So I didn’t hear from Mir for quite a while. But Ter Haar kept on writing.

His next letter was no longer so accusing:

One week after I received his letter, the papers announced that Denpasar had fallen. Denpasar fell thirty days after the army attacked.

In another letter Ter Haar reported the news behind the news:

But even with the fall of Denpasar, Bali had not surrendered. The center of government in Klungkung would not surrender. It
could not yet be subdued. They had not yet got their hands on it. The war would continue.…

If Marie van Zeggelen had written to me, perhaps she would have said the Balinese war was not fought because of the desire for independence and freedom as was the case with Aceh. This was one of the old-style wars of resistance against the Dutch that had occurred all over the Indies.

I read Ter Haar’s letter over and over again. Day after day I waited for Ter Haar’s next report. Each time I read his letter I was more impressed with the courage of the Balinese. They were not yet acquainted with modern European science and knowledge but they were prepared to sacrifice their most valuable property, their lives, so as to not have to bow down before the Dutch. And at the school that I had now left, they were happy just to know that in the future they would be employed by the government as a doctor, the same government that was raping Bali. In the name of the territorial integrity of the Indies!

I would never serve the government, that conspiracy of murderers. I left my desk, went into my room, and stood before the portrait of Mei. “I’m sorry I never told you about this. You have gone without ever knowing that there was a people that fought the Europeans to their last man, woman, and child.…”

The portrait remained silent, refusing to speak.

What must I do now? Struggle in the modern era? Suddenly I remembered Ter Haar’s words that day—a long time ago—aboard the ship from Surabaya: Political struggle today must use modern methods—organization. Become a giant, said the old doctor. And Mei too. And each part of the body would be stronger than the sum of the individuals who were in it. Begin to organize! Your heart is not a desert, is it?

If your people had the courage to fight like the Balinese, to the last man, woman, and child as in the Puputan War, but using modern methods! But how? Organize! Organize now! cried Mei, the old doctor, Ter Haar. But how? How? HOW?

Begin, and you will find the answers, resounded Mei’s voice from several years before.

I bowed my head, went back to my desk. I took out my diary and wrote these words: “Today I begin.”

That evening some of the students from the medical school came to my house. We all sat and chatted beneath the picture of
Flower
of the Century’s End.
The room was filled with smoke. My housemaid was busy going back and forth looking after my guests. There were also some who had been my juniors. There were sixteen in all.

They were all talking about girls, a subject that never ran dry. There was a new student there who sat silently through the whole conversation, just staring at the picture.

“You seem to be really taken by that picture,” someone chided him.

He turned away without answering, and then seemed to fall into a silent reverie.

“You’re usually quite cheerful,” someone else commented.

“Can we discuss something more serious,” I suggested. Before anyone had a chance to protest, I continued: “Have any of you heard what has happened in Bali?”

Not one knew what had happened. Not one.

The rowdiness disappeared. Everything was quiet. I told them about Bali, about the attack on Denpasar and how the war escalated, and about the Puputan battle.

“There has never been such a heroic war in Java, or in Europe.”

“But they were defeated,” interrupted Partokleooo.

“They lost only because they weren’t properly prepared. As human beings and heroes, they are worthy of much more admiration than the army.”

“Perhaps. But they lost,” insisted Partokleooo, who had never read a newspaper in his life. “Not being prepared is just an excuse. If you decide to fight the army, it means you’ve calculated that you are prepared and that you do have the ability to win.”

“I know what you’re getting at,” interrupted Tjipto. “You want to talk about what preparations are needed, what are the conditions that have to be fulfilled.”

The one who had been admiring
Flower of the Century’s End
, the one with the round face, smiled, and looked at me with gleaming eyes, but he still didn’t say anything.

“Begin,” Tjipto encouraged me.

And I began to explain my views about what the backward countries, very backward countries such as ours, needed to survive in the modern era.

“It is precisely fulfilling the appropriate conditions that makes
you modern. First you must have modern science and knowledge, then modern organization and modern technology.”

“We’re starting to get more modern science and knowledge,” someone said.

“But we don’t have any modern organization yet,” I quickly added.

“So you make technology the bottom priority?” someone asked disapprovingly.

“Exactly. What we need now is organization.”

“The old doctor failed in his efforts,” interrupted Partokleooo.

“He didn’t fail completely. His voice lives on in the hearts of some people. It’s just that no one has started yet,” Wardi supported me.

“At the very least, my heart is not a desert in which he cries out hopelessly,” I said, “and I think that goes for many of us.”

“It’s easy for you to talk like that,” contradicted Partokleooo, no longer timid like a rabbit. “You’re not studying anymore. You’re not being hounded all the time by the teachers. Why didn’t you talk like this before?”

“Up to now all anyone has done is talk about organizing.” The round-faced youth made his voice heard. “No one has ever dared try to do it.”

The maid came in and told me that the locksmith had arrived.

I excused myself for a few minutes and went out back.

The locksmith was a young full-blooded Chinese. I took him into my room to open my wardrobe so he could make a key mold.

“There’s the wardrobe,” I said.

But he didn’t move straightaway. He stood instead in front of the painting of Mei, glancing back and forth between me and the portrait. Only after a while did he come away from the painting. He took out a big bunch of keys from under his pajamas and tried several of them. None of them worked. Only then did he try the master key, with its many teeth, and after a bit the door opened. He studied the master key for a moment and then made a mold in some soft wax. Using the mold he made a dummy key from tin and tried it.

“It works, Tuan,” he said. “Tomorrow you will have a new key.”

He didn’t leave straightaway, stopping again in front of Mei’s
picture. He glanced across at me and, putting on an innocent air, asked: “There is a picture of a Chinese woman here, Tuan?”

“Engkoh
knows her?”

He looked at me again, his accusing eyes also full of suspicion. He neither nodded nor shook his head. Perhaps this locksmith was a member of the Young Generation and a friend of Mei. Or he could also be a member of the Old Generation. If he was the latter, then he was a potential murderer or kidnapper of my wife. It was clear from his behavior that there was no other possibility. Whether he was from the Old or Young Generation, he was looking for Mei.

“She died, Koh,” I said.

He seemed stunned and bit his lip.

“Her name was Ang San Mei. You’re looking for her, aren’t you? She was my wife.”

He seemed nervous. I guessed he was indeed a friend of Mei.

“While she was sick none of her friends came to see her.” He bowed his head deeply. “You didn’t come either. She died peacefully in my arms in the hospital.”

He didn’t say anything, pretending not to understand what I was talking about. He asked permission to leave, his head still bowed down. I escorted him outside, down the steps and across the yard to the street.

I went back to my friends. From my chair I could see the locksmith. He couldn’t make up his mind what to do. He walked back and forth, stopping occasionally to look in the direction of my house. Perhaps he had smuggled himself into the Indies like Mei and her fiancé. Perhaps he was someone new, who had just arrived. Perhaps he too was a university student, and now wandered about Betawi in pajamas as a locksmith. Whether or not he was a locksmith, maybe he was also working away for his country and people, even though they might not know it. His English might also be as fluent as my late comrade’s or Mei’s. And such lack of pretensions!

My country has not been conquered by a foreign people as yours has, chided Mei’s voice. Your work will be more difficult than mine. Your method of work will also be different. And you still haven’t started.

The locksmith disappeared from view.

“Gentlemen,” I continued, “two years ago the old doctor, who had spent all his savings to travel around on his mission, said
that we were already four years behind the Chinese who had founded the Tiong Hoa Hwee Koan. And we were already two years behind the Arabs. Now we must add a further two years. So what will we do about it, my friends?”

They had not been able to come to any agreement while I was out attending to the locksmith. They suggested that I begin, but that they couldn’t afford to disrupt their studies. They would not be able to pay the school if they were expelled.

“I do not mean to disrupt your studies, gentlemen. Even so I ask you to at least think a little about what we’ve discussed. The others have brought in teachers from China and Japan, and the Arabs from Egypt and Algeria. They insist on not teaching Dutch, but English instead. Their graduates continue their studies in schools in Singapore or other British countries. They will return to the Indies as first-class graduates. We will be left even further behind. And still we are not making any efforts. None.”

The discussion had spoiled their evening. The gaiety had disappeared. The round-faced student returned to silently gazing at the picture.

“It’s only a picture,” someone teased him.

It wasn’t even nine o’clock before they had drifted back to the dormitory. When the curfew horn blew there was not a single one left. It was my fault; they did not need an organization yet.

The next afternoon the locksmith returned as promised with the new key. After he had handed it over, he forced himself to ask: “Don’t be angry, Tuan, but may I ask where your wife is buried?”

If he knew, his friends might come and ask for her to be moved from the Moslem cemetery where she was buried. No. She will be buried in the earth that I had bought for her, and for myself in the future. I would not tell him where.

And he didn’t insist.

“She didn’t leave behind any writings?”

“Yes.”

“May I see them, Tuan.”

I knew that her friends had a greater right to them than I. I went inside and tried out the new key. It worked. I took out a bundle of Mei’s writings and gave them to him.

While standing in the door, the young Chinese man silently read through them. I didn’t know what was in them. And while he was reading I was able to study the young man’s face. A free man, selling his services cheaply, yet with an interest in papers,
dedicating himself to his country and people. No one can possibly love their country, echoed Mei, if they aren’t familiar with the materials that tell about it. If they are not familiar with its history. And especially if they have never done any service for it.