He left in a fury. And my own head was throbbing even more now. I gulped down an aspirin and climbed back into bed. I fell sick. The doctor was summoned that morning. After he left and as things quieted down at home, I began to put in order my thoughts about the Indische Partij triumvirate. But no! It was beyond me now. All I could decide was that they were young nationalists full of romanticism and emotion. And I slept bathed in sweat.
At nine o’clock in the morning, my wife passed on to me a letter of reprimand from the office and a page out of an English-language newspaper. I didn’t bother reading the letter.
The newspaper clipping contained an article criticizing the way the Dutch had administered their colony and the peoples of the Indies. According to this newspaper, Raffles did more good for the people of the Indies than the Dutch did in three hundred years. Raffles abolished slavery and began to build primary schools for the Natives. As soon as the English left Java, the Dutch abolished all the schools and allowed slavery again. Even now slavery was rampant in the Indies, except in Java, the Moluccas, and North and South Celebes. It was indeed appropriate for the Dutch to celebrate the hundredth anniversary of their liberation from the French. But it would be even more appropriate for the Dutch to consider to what extent they have really repaid their debt to the Indies Natives, as they are supposed to be doing according to the Ethical Policy.
That article worked wonders in helping to cure me. It was much more powerful than the medicines the doctor had given me. For the next three days and nights, I hid under my bedsheets. I don’t know how the anniversary was celebrated. My wife and children didn’t go outside either. They were worried about my health. Several letters arrived from the office. I didn’t bother with any of them.
The festivities continued for three days. All that I could hear was the occasional thunder of cannon, the very same cannon that subjugated the Natives. What for the Dutch symbolized greatness only reminded the Natives of their insignificance. D-W-T had not violated the truth, even slightly. It was the Dutch who should have been ashamed of themselves, nobody else. The French came, the Dutch were defeated, the English came, the Dutch were defeated. So these celebrations of one hundred years of liberation from the French were nothing more than the celebration of a defeat that had never been brought to an end through victory. These were the celebrations of a people who had never achieved greatness in war.
And Monsieur R— was at odds with himself, caught up in both the cyclone of history and the reality of the present. And I was at odds with myself because of the cyclone of power that was thirsting for victims.
I reflected on my experiences in my work over the last year. There was no doubt that my every step took me deeper into the field of mud. And my footprints sank into its softness. And no matter how completely they disappeared, there was no way I could deny they were mine. Why was all this upsetting me again? How beautiful were my days as a police inspector. I never hesitated to deal with wrongdoing, formal wrongdoing with an iron hand. And I knew that the Natives’ wrongdoings were not due to their having a criminal character. Most of this formal wrongdoing stemmed from poverty or was just a result of some injustice they had suffered. But formal wrongdoing was still wrongdoing. There was also some wrongdoing that stemmed from ignorance and superstition, excessive patriotism, or being caught in a dead end, all of which was also the product of a greedy and miserly colonial occupation. And Pitung represented wrongdoing that stemmed from these three colonial products fused into one.
How disgusting was this more recent work of mine, waging war against the best products of European civilization—this very youthful nationalism.
All the time I was sick I could not rid myself of the image of Raden Mas Minke. And Wardi, Tjipto, even Pitung, even though he no longer bothered me as much as he had in the past. Strange. Douwager never came to visit me in my visions.
What must I do now? I didn’t know. I felt as if I were about to lose all my willpower. Or was it that I had already become an old man? All that I needed now was spirit. Somehow, something must blow some spirit into me again. Without such spirit, there was no way I could continue my journey across the field of mud that lay before me, nor turn around and leave it behind. Would I die here stuck fast in the middle of this field of mud?
And this necessary spirit was blown into me—by the arrival of His Excellency the governor-general’s adjutant. He arrived wearing the full uniform of his position and was welcomed with great respect and honor by the whole family. Accompanied by them all, he entered my room and sat at the edge of my bed.
“Meneer Pangemanann, I have come on the order of His Excellency to see how you are.” And with those words, I sat up, attracted by this musical and comforting voice.
“I am not ill, Meneer Adjutant, just exhausted. I think I am beginning to recover,” I answered. “I am deeply grateful for His Excellency’s concern and kindness. I am sure I will be able to come to work tomorrow.”
And so it was. The next day I was sitting once again at my desk. How much I longed that His Excellency would come and visit me in my office, sit down and perhaps say a few encouraging words. Such words would be from Her Majesty and be addressed especially to me.
It was only Monsieur R— and Meneer Gr— and the other senior officials who came to see me out of politeness. Perhaps they would have preferred that I had died, stiffened, and never returned. The most polite of all was my own boss. I could not guess what he had done while I was away. It seemed he had to wait for me because I was the one with the position of sworn expert.
“It’s good to see you’re well again,” he said and now he didn’t seem as stressed as before, perhaps because the wave of hatred against the French had now passed. “His Excellency was truly hoping for your recovery.”
He pushed across to me a sheaf of papers, including an unfinished report of his own. It was presenting a case as to why the governor-general should use his Extraordinary Powers to . . . It was at that point that I closed my eyes. My boss wanted to exile the Indische Partij triumvirate, who had been puncturing his national pride all this time. And it would be I who had to finish this dirty work.
I had to complete and fix up his draft, as well as make a copy, because such documents were not allowed to be copied by the clerks, and then I had to sign it. My boss left, saying he would come back later to pick up my work.
I carried it all out while trying to convince myself that I was not doing it of my own will, that I was not responsible. No! No! I am just a clerk who is copying out my superior’s recommendations. And I finished it. I read through it again. I was satisfied with my beautiful writing. I could have been a very successful scribe. I had received a score of nine for handwriting ever since grade school. My letters joined together to form words, and the words formed sentences. I always scored high marks for my Dutch as well.
“You don’t look happy with this work.”
“My headache has returned, Monsieur.”
Everyone else had left the building.
Suddenly, as I was reading it one more time, I began to choke, I couldn’t breathe. Every word seemed to be squeezing my emotions in its grip. Every single word was another nail in the coffin of those three men, and they did not know a thing about me, yet it was I who was determining their fate.
“You have not signed it yet,” Monsieur R— reminded me.
I affixed my signature. I pushed the papers across to him. I picked up my coat and hat. I hurried out of my office. Nicolaas Knor was waiting outside to say good afternoon. I nodded in reply and then left. I wanted some peace by myself, undisturbed by anybody. My feet did not bear my body home. I just walked and walked. I went into the first inn I found and threw myself down onto the bed still wearing my shoes.
What has been the use of my education all this time? Before I realized it, I was sobbing uncontrollably. The tears of someone who should already have grandchildren. Bankrupt! An intellectual bankrupt! It had been a waste of time, all the study I had done. Colonial corruption had c
orrupted me too, corrupted my soul. Yes, my God. I was no longer a chess player. I was nothing more than a contemptible slave.
My head throbbed and I soon had a high temperature. If death were to arrive now, I would be very, very grateful. How would it feel if it was I who had to suffer what would flow from what I had just written. And what if it was not D-W-T who would suffer all this but my own children? What would I say then? To whom could I roar out how I would feel? What would happen now was the result of the action of men. And I was one of them. And the colonialists and the holy men would say this is punishment from God, pray to Him for your safety. Yes, my God, how easily do they corrupt your name. How much more easy had it been for them to corrupt me.
There was a knock on the door. I had not even had a chance yet to turn on the light. I got up and turned the switch.
“Meneer, Meneer,” I could hear a voice calling outside, “Open the door.”
I looked at my watch. Three in the morning. My head throbbed as if it would burst open at any moment. Slowly I opened the door. Standing before me was the Chinese man who owned the inn. Behind him stood His Excellency’s adjutant.
“Good morning,” he began. He was not wearing his official uniform. “It was lucky we were able to find you so easily. Sign this receipt.”
I signed the receipt and I was handed two letters sealed with wax. One was for me, the other was for the KNIL commander in Bandung. I opened and read mine—my orders.
“There is a car waiting for you outside. You must leave now.”
Carrying my briefcase, I climbed aboard the car which bore the special number plates belonging to vehicles of the governor-general’s palace. Perhaps I was the first Native to travel in a palace car, carrying out a special task for the governor-general.
The driver was a Pure European, wearing a white uniform and white cap too. Without anyone saying anything, the car sped off in the direction of Bandung, its headlights blazing.
I became dizzy as I watched the trees lining the streets suddenly appear in the lights of the car and then disappear again, swallowed up by the darkness. I had known what was going to happen. I had tried to hide in a little inn somewhere, but they had found me. And I just accepted everything when they found me. I had not the slightest desire to resist.
I woke up when the car stopped in front of the guardhouse at the KNIL commander’s headquarters. I hadn’t realized until then that my clothes were a mess. My hair was uncombed and I had left my hat at the inn.
It was six-thirty in the morning.
I received a cool welcome. I was only a Native. All the soldiers were Pure-Bloods, in khaki uniforms, with brass buttons decorated with a picture of a rifle. They wore green bamboo hats as well. One of them escorted me to the waiting room that was beside the commander’s office.
I sank into a big divan. Hunger was making me restless now. When an adjutant came to see me, I stood, and I could feel my vision blur and wander. I held out the letter to him, the one addressed to the commander. He accepted it and read the address.
“You look very pale. Are you sick?” he asked.
“I have a bit of headache, Meneer Adjutant.”
“Please sit down. I’ll call a doctor.”
He left. A little while later an attendant brought some white coffee and toast. It tasted so good. Ah, I hadn’t brushed my teeth or washed my face yet.
The adjutant returned with a Dutch doctor. They took me to another room. The adjutant left again. A quarter of an hour later he returned, looked at me as if it was for the first time, and said: “I hope Meneer Doctor can help you. He said you were ill. Even so, no one else can carry out this task except you. You must try to hold on for a few more hours. Just wait a while now. The medicines for you will be here soon. Then you must take this letter to the garrison.”
My medicines arrived. The adjutant escorted me out to the car. And it took me to the garrison. A captain received me in proper military fashion, asked me to wait, and excused himself from the waiting room.
Then I remembered that I had left my briefcase in the car. How forgetful I was becoming these days. Was I beginning to go senile? I tried to remember what was in it. No, there was nothing dangerous.
And it seemed I waited for so long.
At eight-thirty in the morning a convoy of trucks arrived carrying a company of KNIL, in full battle dress. I was invited to sit in the first truck, next to the driver, an Ambonese corporal.
The convoy started to move. Everyone along the road had to stop and watch us. The convoy traveled quite slowly. We finally stopped in a residential area. The soldiers all jumped out of the trucks and spread out. I stayed inside the truck, by myself.
It wasn’t a quarter of an hour later that I saw Wardi walking along the road escorted by the soldiers. Everyone walking along the street at that time stopped to watch this strange scene—a civilian under military arrest! And there were so many military. The one under arrest was a skinny, small, short Native.
The detainee walked with confidence. His chin was thrust out as if he was communicating with everyone who looked at him: “This is how they are treating me. This is how these soldiers with nothing to do are kept busy. Here I am. Wardi! Tell everyone that they have arrested me and with so many soldiers.”
I bowed my head. I knew all this was happening only because, on my boss’s orders, my hand had scratched some words out onto a piece of paper.
Douwager and Tjipto’s fate would be no different. It was I, nobody else but I, who was assigned to witness the arrests. How powerful were words, just scratched out on paper. One company of soldiers is set in motion, a person is arrested. Perhaps as many as a whole battalion has been mobilized to carry out the arrest of all three of the triumvirate. And all because of my signature. My boss had been worried that they might be defended by Indische Partij fanatics. That wild pig! He never listened to what I told him—between the triumvirate and their mass followers there was much too big a gap. Or did he just want to have a display of power? And if they were to arrest Mas Tjokro? Maybe they’d put a whole regiment on display!
On that day I witnessed how heroes were made. On the other hand, this disgusting work of mine did not end there.
As soon as I arrived back at my office in Buitenzorg, I received new orders—I had to devise a public justification for the arrests. A public defense! Not the internal justification! All this was because the Chinese and Malay-Chinese press were roaring demands for an explanation. It wasn’t long before the English-language press overseas also announced their amazement and stated their view that the Indies government had overreacted and abused its power. This was not the Middle Ages. There had to be a justification for everything.
Still feeling sick, I explained that D-W-T were not arrested in their capacity as leaders of the Indische Partij, not as politicians, not as political leaders; they were arrested as journalists whose writings had threatened public order and security.
They would soon be departing for exile. But because of the severe reaction of the Chinese and English press, the governor-general wavered in his actions. They were given a chance to defend themselves with a written statement that was allowed to be published. And they used that opportunity.
When Wardi and Douwager were offered the choice of exile in the Indies or overseas, they chose the latter and departed for Europe. Tjipto at first chose the former, but finally changed his mind and also chose Holland.
I realized that I could not wash my hands of this, even though I knew this was all the plot of my boss, a mad Frenchman, whose national pride had been offended. The son of a great nation, a nation that had given humankind a great revolution. That was in 1789. In this year, 1913, he betrayed his ancestors—using my hands.
7
It was the year 1914. I was never going to be given my leave to go to Europe. No medals had been pinned to my chest either.
Over there in Europe, the shooting incident at Sarajevo had been turned into an excuse for war whose real purpose was to fight over the colo
nies which were desired as sources of raw materials for Europe’s industries or as markets where they could dump their products. Very, very quickly, every colonial country involved itself in the struggle over the colonies. A great war took place. War!
France was directly involved. My wife and children’s dreams of going back there were destroyed. And how stupid it was for civilians to descend into the battlefield.
The government requested the Christian and Islamic spiritual leaders to say prayers for the safety of the Netherlands, Her Majesty Queen Wilhelmina, and her family. And I am sure that had D-W-T not been in exile, their words would have once again given much pain to the colonial authorities. But now, pray, all of you, that the Dutch may rule over the people and earth of the Indies forever!
In this year, I recovered my health.
My boss was transferred to another post outside Java. My new boss was a Pure-Blood of Dutch descent who did not have much to say for himself. He had not been long in the Indies and so had not yet been completely taken over by the colonial mentality.
The overseas press started to call this big war the “world war.” Someone had argued that this war was involving the whole world, the whole of humankind, without exception, from those who were being taken off to their graves to those who were just being formed in their mother’s wombs. A fortune-teller prophesied that this great war would leave a mark on all the babies that were being born now. They were fated forever to be involved with wars, until they died.
Nobody knew what would be the fate of the Indies, into whose hands it would eventually fall. The colonial authorities would be demoralized. Their thoughts would be preoccupied with the uncertain future. The thunder of the English, French and German cannon seemed to grow more audible every day, echoing there in the background and instilling fear about the future. Once the Netherlands was attacked, all the Indies could do would be to await its fate.
House of Glass Page 22