It was the height of the afternoon, time in fact for a siesta in the tropics. But by now he had learned that, even here in the provinces, people did not have outhouses where guests could lie down and rest for a few hours. He felt his muscles tense. The painted door to the cesspit looked exactly like the one at the Chinese restaurant on the eve of his departure for this peculiar country. An open heart in the dark-green wood beckoned.
Inside, he lifted the lid and stared into a dark hole. He listened closely but could hear nothing, only the buzzing of a fly or two. There was no pail of water for rinsing his behind. No matter: he had learned to cope with the strange Dutch phenomenon of toilet paper.
And on that summer’s day in 1950 in Helmond, buttocks spread on the wooden seat in an outhouse that was spick and span, he relieved himself and counted the seconds as the turd left his body and fell earthwards. But he heard nothing, not even after he had counted to ten! Even more alarmed than he had been at the Chinese restaurant in Surabaya, he leapt off the toilet. Keeping one eye on the mysterious dark pit, he fumbled nervously with the toilet paper.
Back in the living room, with its ill-fitting cloths on polished tables, pots of geraniums on the windowsill and cuckoo clock nailed to the wall, he took a seat opposite his future father-in-law.
The man offered him a cigar.
After taking one from the blank wooden cigar box held out to him and lighting it, Arto glanced over his shoulder towards the garden. What strange, silent breed of creature did they keep in the depths of their cesspits here in Helmond?
The cobbler, in his civvies, blew a smoke ring at the ceiling and quietly observed the young man from the tropics, who stole another look over his shoulder. Then he asked dashing Arto the one, prescient question that his bride-to-be, listening furtively at the door, would never forget.
‘Listen fella, are they out to get you or something?’
Recollections of a heffalump (1)
‘No-oo, that’s not how it went the day he came to Helmond… Annie van Asseldonck comes to see me and says do you want to write to a lad over in the Indies, so I go over to hers and she’s got a stack of photos of exotic young blokes and I says, crikey, he’s a looker, he’ll do for me, I’ll write to him all right. Oh yes, your Pa was a fine-looking man in his day! Anyway, she gives me his address and passes my address on to somebody or other and sure enough I get a letter from Pa and we start writing to each other. That went on for a year or two and then he came to Holland. He was stationed with the Marines on Van Alkemadelaan in The Hague even though he came here as a civilian. He didn’t have time to visit me straight off – it must have been a month or two later. Because… well, he had to acclimatize and that, and he’d gone to Amsterdam to see that other girl who wrote to him and to Limburg or somewhere, I don’t know, and he went to Lunteren to see that other marine, the lad from Gelderland who kept chickens. Then one fine day someone turns up at the shop. I was upstairs or outside at the time, so my father comes and says Annie there’s a visitor for you, that chap of yours has turned up, that East Indian fella! “What?” I said, and Riek was there too and she’s up at the mirror in a flash doing her hair. Anyway, I went down to the shop and there was your Pa with that bloke from Lunteren. No, he didn’t come alone, I don’t care what you say, you or that father of yours. He came with that poultry farmer, I know for a fact.’
‘Had a chicken under his arm, did he?’
‘Don’t be daft! What kind of man brings a chicken along on a Sunday when his pal’s out to marry some girl… Joop! That was his name! Or Jan. Joop van den Burg. Or Jan van der Burgt, something like that. My mother wasn’t home and my father said go and sit in back with him, I’ve got customers.’
‘On a Sunday?’
‘Well, then it must have been Saturday, I can’t remember exactly. Anyway, I know he didn’t want the customers to see we had a darkie in the house.’
‘Was Pa a darkie?’
‘Anyone that wasn’t white was a darkie, that’s how backward we were in those days. By this time my mother’s turned up and she doesn’t know what to do with herself either. And Riek keeps on exclaiming “Oh what a handsome lad! Oh what a handsome lad!” I was fat back then and Pa called me a heffalump right off the bat. He kept flirting with Riek, but she was only sixteen and that was still too young. Anyway, we had sandwiches and coffee and then my father tells him he should call again. And to make an appointment next time, if he didn’t mind. A few Sundays later he’s back, with another ex-marine this time, a lad from Tilburg, I don’t recall exactly. A Dutch lad, a Brabant lad I should say. And at the end of August 1950 – five months he’d been in Holland by then – he turns up on his own one day. He’d moved out of the barracks to a place on Trooststraat in The Hague. Can’t say I was in love with him. Riek was head over heels, not me. We went for a walk down to the Vrand, a big park, over the bridge and along the paths by the Tea House. “That sister of yours is a fine-looking girl!” he says. And I say, “Well, don’t go trying anything on with her, she’s only sixteen.” I didn’t feel anything much for him, but he asked me over to The Hague one time. My Aunt Annie was living on Troelstrakade at the time so I stayed with her and it was like I was drawn to him, like a force was tugging at me, all mysterious, like in those books by whatsisname, that writer, Couperus is it? Like a force it was, even though I had a will of my own, you know, had my head screwed on, I did. My parents were dead against me going to The Hague, but the more they protested the more I was drawn to him. I was working in the cardboard factory at the time, packing boxes, checking things off, getting deliveries ready, that sort of thing. One Thursday they hand me my pay packet and the next day, instead of turning up for work, I get on the train. I go to Aunt Annie in The Hague and tell her I’ve run away from home ’cause they’re all against me and I’m always getting told off. Annie says don’t go and see him whatever you do, stay here with us for a bit. But her son sneaks me over to Trooststraat one day. Yes, I asked him to. And that’s when it all began. Your father wasn’t working; he was still living off handouts from the Marine barracks. We went cycling together and visited folk he knew from the Indies, Aunty Lieke and Aunty Thea and the rest. On my side we went to see Aunty Fien. Fien lived on Van Alkemadelaan back then, not far from the barracks. She warned me about your father, said he was wrong for me and things would never work out between us. She thought there was something strange about him. He was always looking over his shoulder and my father would say, “Hey, no one here is out to get you…”’
‘“I know,” your father would reply, “but I’ve been through so much.” He was always afraid of being attacked but I didn’t see the paranoia in him. It was a thrill, going into town with such a handsome, dark-skinned lad, that was something out of the ordinary, something no one else had! Even so, there was something a bit off-putting about it, a bit peculiar. I was nineteen and I’d never been to bed with a boy and I wanted to be a virgin bride, pure as the driven snow. But one day I’m back at his place on Trooststraat. Pa had an upstairs room to himself. Quite a few lads from the Indies would hang out there and they used to have a good laugh ’cause I couldn’t understand a word they said. They drank fruit squash or coffee, never alcohol. Once they gave me a glass of that cordial to drink – susa, soso – something like that. Pa’s friends left and, what came over me I’ll never know, but suddenly there I was stripping off! I forced myself on your father. I was all hot and bothered and having a fine old time to myself and it was only later I found out they always had a little bottle of Spanish Fly with them and they had slipped some into that… that…’
‘… susu, Ma… rose syrup… cordial…’
‘… they slipped it into my drink! I never touched the stuff again. Cordial or not, to me that rose syrup is nothing but a tropical love potion. Kees Stokkermans, or Joop Stokkermans, whatever his name is, that marine from ’s-Gravenzande, he told me those lads used that stuff to drive me crazy and he should know ’cause he was stationed in the Indies and he said that’s what they
do, drive each other mad with herbs and potions and guna-guna, even kill one another with that hocus pocus. It’s a different world, you know. Here they just blow one another’s brains out. I hadn’t a clue, I mean I was still a virgin but one slug of that muck and you’re shagging yourself silly! So that was my first time but there was no blood and your father didn’t believe me and called me a liar and refused to accept I’d had an examination down there and that they’d pierced the hymen. When his Indo pals came back, I heard them say half in Malay, half in Dutch that he’d have to marry me. If you ask me that’s what he was after, ’cause he didn’t have an official passport then, just some kind of green card from the Marines. And, my God, wouldn’t you know it, one time and that was me pregnant! And your father and those boys just sat there laughing and Stokkermans said not one of them Indos is any good. The pregnancy made me sick and I didn’t dare tell Aunt Annie. I found myself a bedsit on Van Zeggelenlaan. I told your father about my condition and he didn’t bat an eyelid, the creep. It was all part of his little scheme, if you ask me. He wanted us to live together – ‘shacking up’ we called it then – ’cause marriage wasn’t an option, he was in a jam, didn’t even know whether he’d be allowed to stay in the country. December 1950, January 1951 this was, and I was queasy and achy the whole time. We moved into a ground floor flat on Gouverneurlaan, fifty guilders a week, half board with a landlady. I was working at a printer’s shop, Rijmenam on Hofwijckstraat, and your father volunteered half-days on Van de Kunststraat as a lathe operator and a draughtsman. When the sickness got so bad I couldn’t work any more, your father began to hit me. The landlady heard me crying often enough and one evening she even sent for the doctor. He didn’t see that I was expecting twins and left me none the wiser as to why I was so sick. Yes, the pair of you made me sick. Sick as a dog!’
‘Even back then?’
‘Yes, even back then, you little prick! I went on the sick and when your father was at work the landlady used to knock at the door and check on me. She saw from my face that he hit me and told me he should keep his hands to himself, that she wouldn’t stand for it in her house. I can see you’re from a decent family, she said, so pack your things love, and to hell with him.
‘“But I’m expecting!” I said.
‘“Oh God, that too! How far along are you?” she asked.
‘“Three months. I have to get married or I’ll bring shame on the family,” I said.
‘And then one day my mother came to The Hague to visit Aunt Annie on Troelstrakade. That was all Annie’s doing, ’cause she thought I should make a clean breast of it. She wasn’t going to tell tales, I had to speak up for myself. I kept my mouth shut the whole afternoon. It was only when I took my mother back to Hollands Spoor station that it came out, in a fit of tears. She wasn’t the least surprised. A week later, Aunt Annie put your father and me in touch with Reverend Lelie. He was from Helmond, too. Pa asked the vicar if he would wed us, but he refused unless I went to Sunday school first. There was no way Pa would marry a Catholic girl, ’cause his mother’d had him christened a Protestant during the war and herself along with him. Something to do with the Chinese being in danger if they believed in Confucius or Buddha, I don’t know the ins and outs. So, Sunday school it was, at a community centre type place. At first, your father came along to make sure he approved and after a while I went by myself. Aunt Annie put Reverend Lelie in touch with my parents in Helmond. They talked and talked and when he came back, Reverend Lelie told me my parents were still dead against us getting wed. Not only that, but he had made inquiries in Indonesia and it turned out your father had got up to all sorts over there and so he thought my parents had every reason to oppose the marriage, that it would be a one-way ticket to misery. But I was blind with love and pregnant into the bargain. Reverend Lelie suggested I go into a home for unwed mothers. You two would’ve been taken away from me as soon as you were born, and I’d never have seen my children again, never even know their names or where they were. You’d have gone straight to a Catholic orphanage, been put up for adoption. Two weeks they gave me to think it over, then I had to go to Helmond and tell them my decision. Your Pa knew nothing about it. The day dawned and off I went to see my parents and I was supposed to call on Reverend Lelie that same evening. Of course, I told them I couldn’t bear to have my child taken away from me and to pretend I’d never even had a baby. I still didn’t know I was expecting twins. Life might be difficult, I said, but I want my child to have a father. I was nearly five months gone by this time and Pa and me still couldn’t get married, ’cause we’d found out he wasn’t a proper Dutchman. He had been in Indonesia but here in Holland it was different and they needed proof from Surabaya. And he still bore his mother’s name – Sie – ’cause his father hadn’t recognized him as his own. Pa told me to persuade my parents to give their permission for us to wed. When I came back and finally told him about Reverend Lelie’s plan, he threatened to kill him with his Marine dagger. I swear, he was all set to slit Reverend Lelie’s throat with that dagger of his, you know the one, in that leather sheath, the one he always kept within reach, crazy bastard that he was, and he smiled and told me there was still blood on it, and then you know the score ’cause horrible things happened over there in the tropics, worse than over here, way worse than here. Not like with the Jews, mind, that was different altogether. But at last the papers arrived from Indonesia and they were enough so we could be married by the magistrate.’
‘Oh, so Indonesia saved the day?’
‘No, I’ll get to that in a bit.’
‘That can’t be right. In Holland they tell him his papers are no good, so they leave it up to the Indonesians and they decide it’s all fine? Since when did a Dutchman ever take an Indonesian’s word for anything? What kind of bullshit is that?’
‘Pipe down, will you? Let me finish! What do you know about it? It must have had something to do with him being a political refugee, with him having to flee the country all of a sudden. Anyway, the papers meant we didn’t need my parents’ permission to marry. We were wed on 28 March 1951. Two witnesses: that marine from Tilburg and your father’s bosom buddy, Sundahl, the one who ended up emigrating to America. But here’s the best bit, it turned out your father still wasn’t a Dutch national. In Indonesia he was registered as Chinese, so while we were waiting for him to be nationalized or naturalized or whatever, I became a Chinese by marriage. The one and only Brabant-born heffalump registered in The Hague as a Chinky!’
‘That’s not what Pa says. At the end of his memoirs he writes… Here, read for yourself…’
‘Memoirs? You have his memoirs? How did you get your hands on them?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘But no one’s supposed to read them!’
‘Why ever not?’
‘They’re secret!’
‘Not secret from you, surely?’
From Baldy’s memoirs (1)
Soil of the Fatherland
On 14 April 1950, I first set foot on the soil of the Fatherland. A military band was lined up on the IJ docks, playing popular tunes of the day to welcome the homecoming soldiers. For me, it was one surprise after another. Everything was new and strange. Once our transport ship, the Great Bear, had docked, I disembarked with my fellow marines. We walked down the long gangway to a large warehouse on the quay. Barriers held back the cheering crowd. Among the throng, a mob of young Communists began shouting abuse at us, calling us mass murderers, rapists and hurling other choice epithets. The marines up ahead were so angry they dropped their duffel bags and dived into a fistfight with those scum. I was ordered to join in, whether I wanted to or not. I did not hesitate and began to lash out. The Military Police soon arrived in a bid to calm things down but they were not much help. By that time, the regular soldiers had disembarked and they waded into the fray. The arrival hall was one big battlefield. Eventually, the troublemakers took to their heels and order was restored.
I recovered my suitcase and joined the marines
queuing at the tables of refreshments, where helpful ladies stood waiting with apples and packets of sandwiches. A charming little Red Cross nurse handed me a packed lunch with the words, ‘Welcome to your Fatherland, East Indian marine.’
I was so nervous and surprised, all I could say was, ‘I thank you.’ Never in my life had a white Dutchwoman greeted me with such friendliness, such warmth. In the Indies such humanity would have been unthinkable, since we, the product of the Indies, were third-class citizens, the dusky dregs of society. We were on the same level as the natives, the people they used to call inlanders and now refer to as Indonesians. And if they found out you had been born out of wedlock, you were treated as a pariah.
Waiting for the rest of my baggage in the arrival hall, I joined my mates Ben de Lima, Harry Rijckaerdt and Jonker Laperia, and we found a quiet corner where we could enjoy our packed lunches. A little while later, a couple of Dutch pals came over and treated us to bottles of beer. I decided to go for a wander and bumped into a number of porters. Among them were a few old friends who had made the voyage before I did. When I asked if there were no better jobs for them, they told me work was thin on the ground and began banging on about the good old days.
It was late afternoon by the time our baggage was loaded onto the waiting buses bound for various destinations. I said farewell to my friends and boarded the bus to The Hague. There I was housed temporarily in the home of Thea Kötner on Parallelweg. Thea was a divorcée whose ex-husband had been given custody of her three children. The very next day I had to move to a boarding house on Oostduinlaan, run by Mrs Essenberg. She came from the Indies, but sympathy and solidarity were not in her nature. Money was her sole motivation for taking me in. Another day passed and I reported to the municipal offices on Goudenregenplein. There I handed in my green passport. The desk clerk, a demobbed soldier who had served in the Indies, took the document and bitterly cursed the old colonial system that had fobbed me off with a green passport and the status of ‘Dutch subject’.
The Interpreter from Java Page 3