Child of All Nations

by Pramoedya Ananta Toer

  “I have come, Master, Ndoro, to surrender my life into your hands, and that of my wife and my children.”

  “Where are they?” asked Mama.

  I hurried over to the window to make sure no one was trying to peer inside.

  “Still on the other side of the river, Ndoro.”

  “Why are you covered in a sarong like this?”

  He opened his sarong. He wore no shirt, and on the left side of his back was a wound six inches long.

  “From an army sword, Truno?” hissed Mama. Seeing the wound seemed to make her even more nervous. “Pull up your sarong. We’ll call a doctor soon.”

  “I am afraid of doctors.”

  From the window I saw Panji Darman walking towards the house. He waved, so pleased to be seeing everyone again. His face was bright, having lost some of its darkness while living in Europe. His cheeks were flushed, fresh, healthy.

  “Hai, Minke.”

  “Oi!” I answered. “Welcome, Rob.” I was still reluctant to call him Panji Darman. “We were too busy, we couldn’t meet you.”

  “Ah, doesn’t matter. Where’s Mama?” He came closer to the window.

  “She is well, well.” He reached the window.

  “We’re busy right now, Rob. Can we get together tonight?”

  He looked disappointed, nodded, and moved away.

  “So you left them all, Truno, paddy, dry fields, your house?” asked Mama. “Minke, get someone to fetch Dr. Martinet. Tell Darsam to prepare a place in the warehouse.”

  But Trunodongso didn’t feel safe without me. His eyes called out to me. I explained: “Wait here, Pak. Don’t worry. You are safe here as long as you don’t speak. Understand?”

  “Don’t call a doctor for me.”

  “Silence, you, Truno,” whispered Mama. “It’s all to help you.”

  His head dropped in pain, and I went.

  The grain warehouse was almost empty. Mama had ordered everything sold. Grain was being sold every day. Usually she waited for buyers to come looking, but not now. She was selling everything she could.

  As I walked off looking for Darsam I could still see Trunodongso covering his body with the sarong. As he lifted the sarong to cover his back, we could see his swollen feet. He was no longer the Trunodongso who dared stand and challenge everybody with his machete. He was more powerless than a wooden doll.

  I found Marjuki unharnassing the horses from the carriage. Frowning, he protested the new orders to go and fetch Dr. Martinet. “The horses are still tired, Young Master.”

  “Take another horse.”

  “They’re all being used at the moment.”

  “Then hitch up these horses again.”

  “They’re still tired,” he answered back.

  So we had to argue. Darsam came along to help. Marjuki, with a very unwilling heart, harnessed his horses again. Darsam went off to carry out some other order.

  When I got back to the office, I found Mama talking with Trunodongso. They were whispering to each other. As I came closer, I heard Mama say: “You’re ill; you can’t go to get your family yourself.”

  “They won’t know how to get here,” he said.

  “Minke will fetch them. Tell him where they are.”

  “They won’t trust him,” answered Trunodongso.

  “Minke will be able to make them trust him. They have seen him and met him before.”

  “They still won’t believe he’s there to help them.”

  “You must go, Minke. Don’t use one of our carriages; hire one. Truno, tell him where they’re waiting.”

  So I set off in a hired carriage for the address he had given me: a ferry crossing along the Brantas River. I had never been to that area. The driver had to tell me where to start walking—for one mile to the south. I had to walk through villages. The carriage had gone on one mile past the Brantas Bridge. The driver had agreed to wait for me.

  While I walked I tried to think why Mama had ordered me to fetch Trunodongso’s family. She could have sent anyone from the business. I was very tired and didn’t know this area of Wonokromo well at all.

  The village lanes were dirt tracks, still and quiet, overgrown with grass, and looked as though they were never cleaned. There were no drains along the path’s edges, which were lined with shady dadap trees, cactus, and dead thorny branches. A number of people I passed moved to one side, hugging the edge of the path, because I wore European clothes and shoes, Christian clothes. Perhaps they thought I was some black Dutchman out looking for trouble.

  As I got closer to the ferry crossing, it suddenly came to me: Perhaps Mama was deliberately sending me away from the house—from Trunodongso. If he had been followed by spies, only Mama would be arrested. I would not be there. If this were not the case Mama must have had something else in mind. And it was all a result of my own actions. Mama, ah, Mama, you have nothing to do with all this, but still you hold out your hand to help, involving yourself in new troubles.

  The ferry crossing was quiet—no one about except the ferryman himself, poling his way across the Brantas. I had no choice but to wait for him to arrive at my side of the river. There were no signs of Trunodongso’s family.

  Seeing me waiting on the riverbank, the ferryman stopped his work. Indeed, he started to pretend to have some trouble with his raft. You! I shouted in my heart, you’re just pretending, you’re afraid of this black Dutchman too!

  “Hey! You! Quickly! Over here!” I ordered in Javanese.

  His eyes darted about, startled. Fear was written all over his face. Yet he brought the raft over to the riverbank and tied it to a wooden pole. He threw the rope over to the shore. He came up to me, bowing again and again, and stood, hands clasped in front of him: “Ndoro Tuan, Master.”

  “Where are the people who were here a while ago, the ones not waiting for the ferry?” I asked.

  “There’s been no one who hasn’t been waiting for the raft.”

  “A woman, two boys, a girl who had little sisters?”

  “No, Ndoro Tuan, no one like that.”

  “Look out! Tell me quickly, or…”

  “Ah, oh, ah…”

  “No need for ‘ah, oh, ah’—do you want me to take you to my office?”

  “No, Ndoro Tuan. Truly, there is no one here.” He bowed his head and eyes; he didn’t even dare look at my shoes.

  “Is that true?” I asked threateningly.

  He said nothing.

  “Ayoh! to the police station.”

  “Please, no, Ndoro Tuan. My children will be waiting for me at this time of day, Tuan.”

  “Where is your wife?”

  “I have none, Ndoro Tuan; I am a widower.”

  “Who cares? Come along with me.”

  “Mercy, Ndoro Tuan, I have done nothing.”

  “No mercy for you. Come on.” I made a move to leave and he followed.

  From the great fear he showed, I guessed he was indeed hiding the people I was after.

  “Where’s your house?”

  “I have never stolen anything, Ndoro Tuan. There’s nothing in my house.”

  “Walk in front of me. Show me your house.”

  He walked along slowly before me, every now and then turning to see if I was still there. I began to feel badly about the way I had treated him, about coming here wearing European clothes and shoes—symbol of the bogeyman, enemy of the little people. They would all think I was here to steal their freedom or their possessions.

  One behind the other we walked along a narrow path under thickets of riverside bamboo, passing fields of neglected banana trees.

  “That’s your house?” I saw a bamboo-thatched hut emerging from behind the thicket. Smoke formed clouds as it passed through the roof, only to be dispersed by gusts of wind.

  “My hut, Ndoro Tuan.”

  “Who’s doing the cooking?”

  He kept walking, his head bowed, pretending not to hear. Seeing that, I quickened my pace, passed him, and ran on alone to the hut.

  Th
e bamboo door was open. It was dark inside, full of smoke. I saw Piah boiling something in an earthenware pot; she squatted facing the fire. Beside her squatted two smaller children.

  “Piah!” I called.

  She was startled when she saw me. Afraid. Her arms trembled. Her two younger sisters hugged close to her.

  “You haven’t forgotten me? Are you afraid of me?” She kept her eyes on my shoes as she stood up. She placed her shaking hands on her sisters’ heads. “Where’s your mama?” I asked.

  She still wouldn’t answer. Her eyes wandered to the bamboo sleeping bench. There Truno’s wife slept, beside her two boys.

  “Tell your mother I’ve come to fetch you all. A carriage is waiting at the main road.”

  As I came out of the smoke-filled hut, the ferryman arrived. He kept his eyes to the ground, still afraid to look at me.

  “Those little children are yours?”

  “Yes, Ndoro Tuan.”

  “You said you were a widower. Who’s that woman in there?”

  Trunodongso’s wife came outside and up to me. Her eyes were still red. Obviously she hadn’t had enough sleep. Her clothes were a mess. Like Trunodongso, she had swollen feet. Then came her two sons. Their feet were swollen as well. They wore shorts that went down to their knees, and their torsos were wrapped in sarongs. They stood, hands clasped in front of them.

  “Still tired?”

  “No, Ndoro. How did Ndoro know I was here?”

  “From Pak Truno. He’s at my house. He told me. Are you strong enough to walk another few hundred yards? There’s a carriage waiting.”

  They all looked exhausted. Perhaps they hadn’t eaten for a long time. Truno’s wife looked at the ferryman, seeking some kind of advice. The ferryman said nothing. He kept his head down, still afraid and suspicious.

  “Good, have something to eat first. It’s already afternoon.”

  I waited outside the hut. The two boys came and waited with me, sitting on the ground. I sat on a felled banana-tree trunk. Neither said a word, neither looked me in the face. The ferryman went inside and didn’t come out for a long while.

  Five minutes later Piah came out carrying an earthenware dish containing three yellow sweet potatoes in one hand and a jug of water in the other. She put the dish down on the banana-tree trunk and the jug of water near my feet. She invited me to eat, ignoring her brothers.

  I guessed this was the ferryman’s daily meal—now it was being given to his guests. I pushed the dish across to the two boys.

  “Eat. We will be leaving soon,” I said.

  They didn’t eat.

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ve already eaten. You still have to walk another mile or so.”

  Unable to restrain their hunger any longer, they devoured the sweet potatoes, skin and all. Then they gulped down the water in the jug.

  The ferryman had given them all he had, these guests on the run: A roof to shelter under, sweet potatoes, sleeping-bench, and even his own safety—he was ready to give them that too. In another place, Engineer Mellema, educated and quite well off, wanted to obtain other people’s property. And it was none other than the late Herman Mellema who had turned families like Trunodongso’s into vagabonds.

  Trunodongso, this time I failed. But one day, you will still become one of my characters—you, who knew nothing of this modern age. No schooling, illiterate; merely the sight of someone in shoes makes you tremble! And you too, ferryman, you too will become a character in my stories. Perhaps you too are a farmer who has lost his land, and now hoes the waters of the Brantas.

  I cannot do it now. Later, later when I have learned more about my own people. The thing to do now is get them away from here. I myself may have to leave quickly, leave Wonokromo and Surabaya.

  Still the ferryman didn’t come out of the hut. Perhaps he was advising Trunodongso’s wife not to trust me.

  “We must leave now,” I said to the two eldest, the boys.

  They went inside the hut. I waited a long time. They didn’t come out, all apparently agreeing not to trust me. I went in. They all watched me, strange looks in their eyes.

  “Quickly. It’s already late. Do you want to keep Pak Truno lying there in pain waiting for you?”

  Surely it was the ferryman who was making things difficult for me, but I was not angry. I must respect him, no matter what. He himself didn’t try to look at me, just kept his head bowed. Perhaps he avoided looking even at my dirty, dust-covered shoes.

  “So you and your children don’t want to come with me?” I asked. “Then I will return by myself. Pak Truno can’t come to fetch you until his wounds have healed.”

  I went out, and walked away slowly, giving them more time to decide. I looked back, and still they hadn’t come out. I began to quicken my pace. Only after about fifty yards did I hear Piah shouting. I pretended not to hear, though I slowed my pace to let her catch up.

  I could hear her footsteps as she got closer.

  “Ndoro! Ndoro!” she called.

  I stopped. Now I could hear her panting breath. I looked back. Extreme exhaustion was painted on her face—a face that looked so old and yet so childlike.

  “Ndoro won’t arrest us?”

  “Your father is waiting for you and he is hurt. If you don’t want me to take you to him, that’s up to you, Piah. If you want to come, good, you can all catch up with me. I will walk slowly to the main road. It’s still quite a way from here.”

  Who wouldn’t feel sorry for that most exhausted member of the group? Even in these circumstances, they still held important the ideal of freedom—just a tiny bit of freedom—without ever having heard of the French Revolution. But I could do no more than offer them my help.

  She stood there, bewildered.

  “If it’s only you that is to come, then let’s go.”

  “I will go back first, Ndoro.”

  “Yes, go back first. But I can’t stop. I will keep on walking slowly.”

  The child went back to get her mother. I kept walking, without looking back. It seemed a long distance I had to travel. The trust I had won from them in Tulangan was now lost. How many months ago was that? Two? Had things changed so much since then? I wore Christian clothes, I wore shoes, I was closer to Europeans than they were. And it was Europeans who wanted to catch Trunodongso, husband and father. They were people on the run, afraid, hungry, and tired.

  They will give in to me too, I decided in my heart. On the run, in other people’s villages, without Trunodongso, they will have nothing. They will surrender to me.

  When I arrived back at the main road, I found the driver sound asleep, snoring. I climbed aboard and sat beside him. His head was uncovered and his mouth open. His headband had fallen to the floor; I could see his hair was graying.

  For five minutes I sat there beside him. The carriage swayed every now and then as the horses, worried by swarms of evening flies, kept shaking their bodies. The driver still didn’t wake up. And Trunodongso’s family still didn’t appear.

  I cleared my throat and he woke up. He blinked his eyes several times, startled, looking at me in great embarrassment. His hand groped about his head looking for the band of his destar. He became even more nervous when he realized his head was uncovered—very impolite according to Javanese custom. I picked up his fallen destar and gave it to him. He bowed again and again as he climbed down from the carriage, all the while thanking me, feeling he had been too much honored, that I had been too considerate in my actions.

  “Forgive me, Ndoro.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Do we leave now, Ndoro?”

  “We’ll wait a bit longer.”

  He didn’t protest. The sun had almost sunk below the horizon. He asked nothing, said nothing. It was not yet an age when someone barefooted could start up a conversation with someone who wore shoes. In the stories of our ancestors only the priests and gods wore slippers and shoes. And these simple people equated shoes with the power of Europe, of the same essence as the army’s
rifles and cannons. They were more afraid of shoes than daggers or machetes, swords or spears. You are right, Herbert, Sarah, and Miriam de la Croix: They have been made to abase themselves so low by the Europeans, by their own Native leaders. They have become so full of fear: The wages of continuous defeat in the battlefield of confrontation with European civilization.

  Kommer, do I still not yet know my own people? Will people still think of me as incomplete, laugh behind my back, because I write only in Dutch? Now I can answer: Even if only a little bit, I have begun to know my people, a peasant people.

  Just watch, the Trunodongso family will be forced to overcome their fear and suspicion, called to Trunodongso, the center of their family. That is the way of things in Java. They must come and will come. I know the Javanese way. I will wait. My efforts must succeed.

  As twilight reached its climax they became visible in the distance, walking one behind the other. Slowly, hungrily. The two boys carried their little sisters on their backs. Little Piah walked in front.

  I climbed down from the carriage to greet them. They seemed unsure. The hope of seeing the center of the family again shone a little in their faces. The ferryman followed behind, a little way in the distance.

  “Climb aboard, everyone.”

  They climbed up silently, surrendering to whatever might befall them as long as they could see Trunodongso again—but not surrendering from hunger or exhaustion.

  The ferryman stood watching us from a distance. I waved to him. He came closer, bowed his head.

  “Thank you for looking after Trunodongso’s family. When you go home, you’ll be lonely?”

  He just spat.

  “Come here, closer.”

  He took a step forward, but didn’t dare come too close.

  “For the hospitality you gave them, and for the sweet potatoes you need yourself, take this talen.”

  He took it silently.

  “There’s nothing else you want to say?”

  “Can I come to see them soon?”

  “They will come to see you, once things are all right.”

  The carriage began to move. I sat beside the driver. Looking over my shoulder, I examined them one by one. How many miles had they traveled, circling to avoid the soldiers? I won’t ask them here. I saw how their gaze wandered everywhere without fixing on anything in particular, as though they had no interest in the difference between their one-hut village in the middle of the sugar cane and the town with all its factories and street lighting. Perhaps the town’s activities were no more to them than the rustling and swaying of the cane leaves.