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“Ever since that time, the only thing I was ever able to think about was how to survive and to protect the children,” she said, looking at me as her mind returned to Jakarta today.

I felt it was time to begin to record what Tante Surti was telling me, but then her mood suddenly changed, becoming lighter. Smiling broadly, she announced that it was about time for lunch. Would I like to join? This was an offer I was not about to refuse. Alam was right.

“Kenanga called earlier to tell me that she'd cooked
ikan pindang serani
, and that she would send some over to me. It should be here soon,” Tante Surti said as she fetched silverware for the meal.

I helped her set the table as she told me that Kenanga lived with her husband and children nearby. Because Tante Surti now lived alone—her two assistants and the servant went home in the evening—Kenanga often cooked for her mother, even though, Tante Surti insisted, she liked to cook as well. Bulan, Tante Surti said, worked in an advertising agency on Jalan Rasuna Said and lived in a boarding house in the Setiabudi area, which was close to that street, in order to be close to her office. Tante Surti told me that regardless of how busy Alam was, he always visited her on weekends.

Strangely though, after all these years, she remarked with a glance in my direction, he had yet to bring a girlfriend home. Of her three children, Tante Surti said with a smile as she placed water glasses on the table, he was the only one who seemed to have no obvious intention of establishing a permanent relationship with anyone.

I didn't know how I was supposed to react to this information. Wasn't it normal
not
to be married at the age of thirty-three? Or was it that in Indonesia the age of thirty or thereabouts was a demarcation line of sorts, past which one should not wait to get married? I was twenty-three and I didn't know whether I wanted to get married or not.

I was answering one of Tante Surti's questions when a lithe young woman who greatly resembled Tante Surti rushed breathlessly into the house holding a pot in her left arm, a tiffin in her right, and a plastic container beneath her chin. I quickly moved to assist and took the large and hot pot from her.

“You must be Kenanga,” I said. “Here, let me help.” I extracted the plastic container of fried shallots that was wedged between her chin and neck and then took the tiffin from her hand.

“Thank you,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief. “And you must be Lintang. My God, you're beautiful!” she remarked point blank, causing me to blush straightaway. Tante Surti began to remove the food from the tiffin containers and put the various dishes in serving dishes. She shook her head and tisked. “My word, Kenanga, you cooked an entire meal!”

“No extra work, Ibu,” Kenanga replied. “It's what we're having at home for dinner tonight.” Saying that, she again looked at me, up and down, assessing my features. “I'm not surprised that Alam invited you here,” she said to me, then turned to look at her mother: “but I'm guessing that it wasn't just for an interview!”

“I was thinking the same thing,” her mother replied. “Earlier, I told Lintang that Alam had never introduced any of his women friends to me. This is the first time.”

“You're forgetting Rianti,” Kenanga said.

“Oh, Rianti…” Tante Surti said with a flap of her hands. “She only came here because Alam had suddenly vanished like a ghost and she knew that he usually visits me on weekends.”

I was strongly tempted to imitate the way Andini said “Ohmygod, ohmygod” whenever she found something to be funny or absurd, but secretly I didn't object to this dialogue between mother and daughter since they had, at that instant, crowned me in my
position as “the only girl Alam had ever invited to his mother's home.” I didn't know whether to scratch my head or to laugh, the situation was so absurd.

“I came to interview you,” I said to Tante Surti, “not because Alam suggested it.”

Tante Surti looked me in the eye, gently touched my cheek with her smooth fingers, and turned to Kenanga. “Look how she blushes!”

“It's called the ‘Alam effect,'” Kenanga said with a laugh, as she came to the table with a pitcher of water.

Alam was right: when two women were talking, it was always best to listen and to not interrupt—especially when the two were as harmoniously paired as Tante Surti and Kenanga. He was also right that in his home, just as in mine, the family meal occupied an important position in daily life.

The three of us conversed while enjoying our plates of steamed white rice surrounded by tempeh cubes grilled in chili sauce, and stir-fried green beans with shrimp, and portions of milkfish from the soup that Kenanga prepared.

Kenanga seemed surprised to witness my dexterity in using the fingers of my right hand to eat the food she had prepared. When she pushed the bowl of rice towards me, a signal to help myself to a second serving, she asked, “Who taught you to eat with your fingers?”

“My father, of course,” I answered. “This
pindang serani
is extraordinary, Kenanga. The milkfish melts in your mouth. My father is the best cook at the Tanah Air Restaurant, and this is one of his favorite dishes.”

Kenanga glanced at her mother who was now enjoying the meal in silence.

“The recipe is from your father,” Kenanga said.

“Really?”

“Did you know that your father and my mother were once a hot couple?” Kenanga said.

I was glad she'd said that, as it indicated that she and her siblings could look on our parents' former relationship with good humor.

“It's a good thing they never married. If they had, you never would have met Alam!” Kenanga declared as she picked up some of the dishes and began carrying them to the kitchen.

Tante Surti smiled to see her daughter continue to tease me. I brushed off Kenanga's remark.

“Is Alam going to be busy all day?” Tante Surti asked me.

“I think so.”

Kenanga quickly cleared the rest of the table and then prepared to leave. She apologized, saying that she had to attend a parent-teachers meeting at the school of her youngest daughter. Kenanga gave her mother a kiss, and then I walked her to the door. Noticing the plastic container of jasmine flowers on the table in the living room, she paused and said, “For most people jasmine is a flower of death, but for my mother…” She pointed at Tante Surti who was preparing coffee for the two of us in the kitchen, “…jasmine is a flower of life.”

Her remark implied that she and her mother were so close that she was confidant to her mother's past life. Kenanga leaned towards me, speaking in a lower voice: “I suppose that it's because I came to know of death at a very early age, I am now very short-tempered with people who do not appreciate life. That's also the reason I get angry at Alam when he puts himself close to danger. It was enough that we had to grow up without our father and without a normal social life.”

I put my hand on Kenanga's arm. “I hope that you will let me interview you one day.”

“Take care of Ibu first. She's the linchpin in our lives. We'll find a chance to speak again,” she said, “but now I have to go.” She kissed my cheek, then left the house.

We drank our coffee on the back terrace of the house. Tante Surti now seemed to be ready to give her testimony. She positioned herself on a chair facing the camera, a sign that we could begin.

Before starting, I told Tante Surti that if at any point she began to feel uncomfortable, she was to tell me so, and I would stop the camera. But with only one question from me to start, she began speaking to the camera as if it were a long lost friend, someone she had waited for years to meet again…

“I decided to marry Hananto Prawiro in Jakarta in 1953 for reasons of love and conviction. Hananto was a responsible man and I knew that he would love and take care of his family. I knew little about his political aspirations or activities. He worked as a journalist at the Nusantara News Agency where he ran the foreign desk. I knew that, of course, but I knew little of his activities outside office hours. In the numerous times that I was interrogated during the three years that Hananto was on the run, it was always that information my interrogators wanted: what it is that Mas Hananto did, whether he was a member of LEKRA, what meetings he had ever attended, who was present at the meetings, and so on and so forth. These questions were asked repeatedly by different interrogators, and with different tones of voice…”

Tante Surti paused for a moment to take a breath and a sip of coffee.

“Perhaps you could tell me why they detained the entire
family…” I said to her.

“It's not true that they detained our entire family—or at least that hadn't been their original intent. It was my fault that happened. It was just that, with Mas Hananto gone, the kids and I were all so afraid of being separated from each other. But let me go back a bit…

“It all began on the morning of October 2 when Mas Hananto left to go to the office. He said the situation there was very uncertain. He told me not to leave the house unless it was absolutely necessary. Or, if I didn't feel safe, then I was to go to my parents' home in Bogor. But because I had just been at my parents' house for an extended period of time for an entirely different reason—ehem, let's just say that we were having marital problems—I declined his suggestion. I had no inkling of how bad things were to come.

“When Mas Hananto left, he looked worried but he tried to act normal. He reminded me not to be late in feeding Alam. Alam was a fussy child, you see. I reassured him that I would continue breastfeeding Alam as long as possible. Obviously, we didn't know that this would be our last meeting before the day Mas Han was executed a few years later.

“When Mas Han didn't come home that night, I wasn't overly worried and was quite sure that the next morning he would show up at the house complaining about all the unfinished work he had to do. But this time, the situation was different. This wasn't a problem of meeting a deadline, that became clear. When the next day Mas Han still didn't come home, I began to make calls. First I called his office, but no one picked up the line, then the homes of colleagues and friends. I decided I had to go to see for myself. I left Bulan and Alam with neighbors, a kind old couple
who lived next door, and then went with Kenanga to the Nusantara News office. Mas Han wasn't there. I wasn't able to meet the editor-in-chief either, who I was told also had stopped coming in to the office.

“The following days, I was tense with worry and paranoia. I tried to be calm so that Kenanga and Bulan could continue to go to school—even though, more often than not, they came home early because they said that class had been ‘let out.' My mother called and begged me to bring the children to Bogor, all the while cursing Mas Hananto for being a man who thought nothing of his family's safety. Hearing my mother criticize Mas Han like that, I became defensive and decided to remain at home in Jakarta.

“One night, about three weeks later, I received a visit from Kusno, a journalist who worked with Mas Hananto at Nusantara News. …I suppose your father must have known him as well. Anyway, he told me that the editor-in-chief and a number of other agency employees had been detained. Others had been called in for interrogation, but then allowed to go home. Kusno was one of the latter.

“Kusno told me that coming to my home was risky for him. He quickly conveyed that Mas Han was being pursued by the military and that he was in hiding and could not be contacted but that he wanted me to know that it was urgent I take the children and go to my parents' home. After telling me this, he immediately left, leaving me to wonder whether his message was real or not—which has been a source of anxiety in my life from then on. Where was Mas Han? Where could he hiding? And what was he running from? And why hadn't he called or tried to get in contact with me, if only for a moment?

“These were my questions, those of a wife, a woman, who had
no idea how what had happened would affect the fate of the Indonesian people—not only members of the Communist Party and their friends or colleagues, but anyone who sympathized with the goals of the Party or were involved in its affiliated organizations.

“A few days later, after Kusno's visit, a number of men in civilian clothes came to the house to search through my husband's belongings. They searched our bedroom and then went into the children's room, which made Alam scream. They turned everything upside down, but wouldn't say what they were looking for. They asked the same questions, again and again. Where is Hananto Prawiro? When did he disappear? What did he take with him? Where did he usually hide? Did I know that he had a mistress? Did I know where she lived?”

At this point Tante Surti stopped speaking. Her eyes glistened and her lips trembled with anger. I asked her if she would like to stop and take a break, but she insisted on finishing what she had to say, then and there.

“They didn't take us in that night. That happened a few days later, when a couple of them returned to the house and asked me to come to Guntur—the military detention center on Jalan Guntur—for interrogation. It was difficult for me to leave the children at home because my parents didn't live in Jakarta. Naïve as I was, I took the children with me, assuming that they would let me go home after I answered their questions. And so it was that all of us went to Guntur.”