House of Glass

by Pramoedya Ananta Toer

“We still know very little about her, Meneer.”

  “Does she live in Madiun?” I asked.

  “No. But it seems she visits here often. Always during the holidays. She always stays in the same place, with a teacher who lives on the outskirts of town. There are reports, which haven’t been confirmed yet, that she herself lives in Pacitan.”

  I hid my smile, perhaps the same kind of embarrassed smile displayed by the Sarekat member in Surabaya a few days ago. Pacitan!

  “Then she is not with the Sarekat Islam,” I said. And I said to myself that if she was a Sarekat member, then she would be busy organizing for Mas Tjokro’s current visit there, but the police chief had seen her here in Madiun during the last week.

  They didn’t respond. They didn’t know enough about what was happening.

  “Why do you think that?” the resident asked.

  “She is probably too well educated to want to be a Sarekat member,” I answered carelessly.

  The three officials seemed surprised. Perhaps they thought that I knew more than they did. They sat silently watching me. And I knew they were filled with worries that the governor-general might decide to cancel his visit because their preparations were inadequate. They could lose all chance of a promotion just because of a small lapse. These colonial bureaucrats. And they were sitting there hanging on my words.

  A police inspector arrived and handed the resident a big envelope. Without waiting for orders, the policeman then retired from the front parlor where we were sitting.

  The resident took out several telegrams from the envelope and handed them across to me without reading them.

  There were telegrams from Malang, Surabaya, and Semarang. They contained figures for the population of each district, the geographical area, the number of Native organizations, and the size of their memberships.

  “Aha,” I said after studying them, “the organization fever here in Madiun is greater than in Malang, Surabaya, or Semarang.” I put the telegrams down on the table. “You can read them for yourselves.”

  Very painfully the resident and the bupati read through the cables. They had to agree that what I had told them was true.

  “So what do you think is the quickest thing we can do, before His Excellency arrives?”

  “There is no way His Excellency will be visiting Madiun as long as you are unable to control the Native organizations here.”

  “We will take whatever action is necessary straightaway.”

  I didn’t answer. I just said good night. They stood and left, disappearing into the evening darkness. I could still hear the roaring of their cars and motorbikes. The caretaker came and asked me in Malay if I still needed any dinner. I told him no, but ordered him to bring me some liquor. He asked again whether he should lock the doors and windows now. I told him yes. Then I went into my room.

  The three women were still sitting on the mat in the corner. There were two bottles of liquor on the table. I called them over and ordered each one to take a gulp. They each tried a bit, spitting it out all over the place.

  I laughed at this funny scene. And they laughed too, pinching each other good humoredly.

  According to Meneer L— the custom of presenting women to the Javanese elite originated in much earlier times. And now as the Native officials became even more corrupt and incompetent, they became more and more extravagant in their offerings to their superiors. A newspaper once accused the Bupati of Rembang of corrupting Christian morals! I will never forget that case. And now here before me was a Eurasian girl sent to me by Meneer Resident himself, a European Pure-Blood. So who was it who was violating Christian morality? Colonialism itself or this colonialism from Europe which never bothered to outlaw this custom among the Native officials? And wasn’t this custom one of the strongest pillars shoring up the Native officials’ authority and preventing them from being exposed for their incompetence and corruption? Yes, it was probably true that that particular accusation was the most daring ever made since the time Europeans first set foot in this region three hundred years ago. And it is clear that the European officials too have enjoyed the pleasures of this custom and so they have never taken the issue to the courts. And if there was somebody else who had raised concerns about this custom, that person was Haji Moeloek in his Tale of Siti Aini.

  And you, Siti Soendari, are you aware that such a custom prevails among your people? You will shudder at the thought. I too shudder—or at least I used to. But not now. And I think such things occur throughout the colonial world. . . .

  * * *

  When I got back to my office in Buitenzorg, I found a very changed atmosphere. Von Hindenburg was noisily preparing the German army, so all we heard were reports and more reports about the war. His Excellency Governor-General Idenburg canceled his tour. There was a military call-up throughout the Netherlands Indies. The press—colonial, Malay and Chinese—just waited to see how things would develop.

  In the midst of this rather claustrophobic, quiet atmosphere, something happened that suddenly startled everyone awake. A Semarang paper published one of its readers’ letters:

  Not long ago everyone was commemorating the Netherlands’ liberation from France. Now the Netherlands is threatened again, this time by a Modern Bharatayuddha. Who will the Netherlands ally itself with? Will it emerge a victor? After hundreds of years of doing without an army, except its colonial armies used to oppress its colonies? Will the Netherlands fall into the hands of Germany? And then in another hundred years, will there be more commemorations, this time of Holland’s liberation from Germany? At the time of the last commemorations, Douwager, Wardi, and Tjipto were exiled—who will it be in a hundred years’ time?

  The government ordered the newspaper closed until it was able or willing to inform who the author of the letter was. The letter, written in Dutch, was signed with the initials SS. I guessed it was Siti Soendari, but I didn’t tell anyone. I let them all rush about trying to solve the mystery. If she was the author, she should have used the initials StS. And the letter didn’t really have that much to say, except that she wanted to humiliate the government in its impotence. But it also led me to speculate that she had probably been a member of the now deceased Indische Partij.

  The investigations revealed that the original of the letter had been destroyed, changing into who knows what form. The typesetters who were questioned all stated that they knew for certain that the letter had been used by one of them to wipe his inky hands. It had then been thrown into the rubbish bin. The bin itself had been emptied as soon as the presses started printing.

  Most people were speculating that the author was most definitely a Eurasian who was dissatisfied with his position in the bureaucracy. Or some rebel from the Indies Social Democratic Association. Everyone knew that no member of Insulinde would write anything like that. First, because they were so cautious, and second, because they were so loyal.

  Anyway, I didn’t move a finger. It was obviously Siti Soendari’s writing. She had written it fully conscious of what she was doing. She was trying to give the Natives courage to face colonial power. My God, I do not want to go hunting after her, the first woman to appear on my desk, to enter the glass house. I still have some honor, even if only a little! No, my God. I will not persecute this person! The first woman to appear in the public arena and to lead people! She was a thousand strides ahead of the girl from Jepara! A thousand strides in advance of Nyai Ontosoroh. She must not meet too hasty an end inside my house of glass. She deserves the chance to enjoy her beauty, youth, education, and intelligence. Let her develop in accordance with her true nature, let her full beauty bloom. And I myself was interested to see for how long a Native could continue to rise. Of course she would never be a Native Joan of Arc, but she still deserved to get more out of life yet.

  Debate and discussion in my office became more and more intense. They were all still discussing the letter to the editor. They all thought it was excessively vicious. There were no laws forbidding people to ask questions, someone
said, and all that letter did was put some questions to the faceless and anonymous readers. Others replied that the letter was doing more than just asking questions, that there was evil intent in the letter, very conscious evil intent. Still another asked the question, who can prove evil intent before any criminal acts are actually carried out? If intent, just intent, was sufficient for others to take action against people with such intent, then at the very least half a million Moslems would have to be arrested every time they finish their prayers, because their praying is suspicious and almost certainly they are asking their God to destroy colonial power.

  The debate and discussion spread everywhere, even into the offices of the plantation administrators up in the mountains.

  Eventually the word got out, I don’t know from what source, that the author of this vicious letter was a Native woman called Siti Soendari. The rumors, which in this case seemed more or less accurate, also reported that she was an HBS graduate, and still quite young as well as beautiful. And precisely because the suspect was a woman, a beautiful young teenager, the tension began to relax. People began to ask whether the colonial authorities would be able to bring themselves to take action against such a young maiden. Educated as well. Just because she put forward some facts and asked some questions. Then new rumors began to blow about. There was no way the government could take action against her because not only the original letter but also the envelope had been destroyed. And I myself made my own contribution to these rumors. There were too many people whose name began with S. And also there was no way any Native, and especially a woman, would have the courage to publish anything like this. The only person capable of writing something like that was the girl from Jepara, and she was dead.

  The debate and discussion subsided. On the other hand a similar debate emerged in another place—among the Indo Eurasian housewives. If Native women were already starting to behave so impudently, then just imagine what we can expect from their men! So far only one or two people among the Indos had begun to write. And now here was a pure-blood Native writing like this! There were opposing voices: But you all have the freedom to write and to express your anger. The Indo housewives answered back: We don’t know how to write. Then get someone who does know to answer her. But who is able and also willing?

  Silently and secretly, I kept watch on this young woman as her star rose higher and higher, shining brightly in the firmament. The higher she rose, the brighter she shone. And for me her writings contained a timely warning—Germany! Germany! Arise, you nationalists, and be vigilant!

  And this coded warning seemed somehow to be picked up by the Netherlands Indies government. German activities in East Papua and the surrounding waters were closely monitored. All of the Indies’ warships left Java to guard the waterways throughout the archipelago. Surveillance of all the young Turks who had been openly entering the country was intensified. They were harassed too. The spy services that had developed separately in the provinces were coordinated and made official. The main concern was to ensure that Native organizations had no contact with Germans and Turks.

  Meanwhile, more and more material piled up on my desk, all confirming my earlier guess that organization fever was overflowing into the villages. There was also more and more material about Siti Soendari herself.

  In her file I already had a photo of her. I could do nothing but confirm that she was indeed handsome. Her beauty lay in the simplicity of her appearance. Her face was like that of a betel leaf, just as the Madiun police chief had said, with a pointed chin. A pair of big, shining eyes peered out, full of compassion and concern, as if studying everything that humankind was doing, all its excesses and extravagances. And it seemed that she was indeed a gentle and refined person. I say “it seemed” because in her brain there was a burning white-hot nationalism that could move hundreds, thousands of people, men and women, into action.

  Siti Soendari had in fact graduated from the Semarang HBS. She was born in Pemalang. From the time she entered school, she had been an activist in Young Java, also in the Pemalang Association, and in a Native students’ organization, and she was always to be found among the leaders. She was in charge of her school’s wall magazine, and there wasn’t a week that passed when she didn’t write something, and not without commendation from her teachers either. Her Dutch was good, while her English, German, and French were adequate. And these good marks that she obtained in the modern languages were nothing other than her key to open the door to European science, knowledge, and civilization. In Europe, school marks meant nothing, they told us nothing. But in the Indies, such marks were always noted down, because here they determined what salary the colonial civil servant would receive. And there were so few educated people in the Indies, among Indos and Europeans, let alone Natives. So school marks also spoke of what kind of future the Indies might have.

  After graduating she taught in a nongovernment primary school.

  A few months later, she resigned and moved to Pacitan where she taught in a Boedi Oetomo primary school. The move from Semarang to Pacitan surprised many people, especially as her family still lived in Pemalang, which was much closer to Semarang than Pacitan. For me, who knew the real motives for her move, there was no need to be surprised. Her beauty had attracted the unwanted attentions of many young Indos. She didn’t like it at all and decided to move to a smaller town.

  She remained a member of Young Java, but never joined Boedi Oetomo even though she taught at one of their schools. According to her own words, which someone had heard and so they had found their way onto my desk, Boedi Oetomo moved like a snail. Its long antennas were not there to help it move fast and hit the right target, but were just ornaments, because it wasn’t really interested in going anywhere fast anyway. It seemed this girl had absorbed the European rhythm of life, a dynamic one.

  Then she began to be active as a propagandist for the Insulinde. Because this party had no strong leaders, like D-W-T, she herself became dispirited. The Insulinde itself apparently saw her as having quality, because she was offered a seat on the Central Governing Council.

  But she could never accommodate to the anemic and tired atmosphere in Insulinde, which had no thinker, no initiator. She was fed up too with having to mix with all these apathetic Indos. She needed a teacher, someone with ideas. And indeed, it is not at all impossible for a person in such a state, dissatisfied, longing after action, to make a big unexpected leap in consciousness. Yes, make that leap, Soendari, go on, do it! In fact, she had already made that leap. She had made a big leap and had ended up beside and unable to get out from under the wing of Marco.

  Isn’t life strange? I had already put Marco inside my house of glass. And now you, sweet maiden from Pemalang, you have joined him inside too. How was it that you, a graduate of the HBS, could end up under the wing of that village garuda? Yes, and so it was that these two young people, objects of my study, ended up together standing behind the banner of the youth wing of the Sarekat.

  Soendari, just a while ago I wrote that you were a thousand kilometers ahead of Sanikem, the innocent girl from Tulangan, Sidoarjo. And I wrote too that you were a thousand kilometers ahead of the girl from Jepara. And now all of a sudden I find that you have gone no farther than under Marco’s armpit. And that is as far as you will ever go, you will never develop further. Even so I will still be watching you, Noni, pretty maiden from Pemalang. Be careful. Don’t let disaster befall you because of someone else.

  And I will use all my abilities to make sure that I do nothing to harm you, Soen. My pen will not decide your fate. You are the second woman after Kartini who has a right to speak out. I feel a moral and intellectual responsibility for you. I have given you the chance. Now what will you be able to achieve? I want to see if you develop the reach to grasp your goals or will you only be able to scratch nearby itchy spots? It’s up to you.

  The other information I had found out about Siti Soendari included the following.

  She came from an educated family. Her father was on
e of the STOVIA’s best graduates and was now the director of the Pemalang State pawnbrokers, as well as a successful landowner. The pawnbroker service was a new government agency in the Indies. He had been entrusted to be the founding director in Pemalang. Only Natives were allowed to avail themselves of the service. And who else would be wanting to pawn things apart from the Natives? There were people who said that her father also had shares in a sugar mill, but that was too fantastic to believe.

  She had been brought up by her father, who loved her. Her mother had died when she was just seven months old. And her father, who loved her so much, could never bring himself to give her another mother, whose feelings could not be guaranteed.

  Soendari’s father also had a son, Soendari’s older brother. After graduating from HBS in Semarang, he was sent to finish another five years of HBS in the Netherlands. Then he continued his schooling at the Advanced School for Commerce in Rotterdam. All at his family’s expense.

  And you, Soendari, you must understand that as long as your father works for the government, you, as a Native, remain tied to what is in the interests of your father. You must realize this, sweet maiden, before someone else replaces me. And as concerns that, in the meantime it was as if my work would never end. Problem after interconnected problem arrived on my desk.

  The political exiles from the Netherlands were giving us new headaches. A number of them turned out to be very good organizers. Even though they knew nothing about Javanese and Malay customs, and with a completely noncolonial outlook and tradition of their own, they were quickly able to win over a group of educated Natives, and to integrate with them. And without realizing it, the Natives began to learn the European way of organizing, in terms of both form and content. This development resulted in all the formerly quiet and experience-starved sarekats turning militant. The big workers’ sarekats began to appear—the State Pawnbrokers Employees’ Sarekat, the Sugar Mill Workers’ Sarekat, the State Teachers’ Sarekat, the Tram and Train Employees’ Association . . . and a few score more.