This Earth of Mankind

by Pramoedya Ananta Toer

  Another month passed. Mother visited us twice.

  Five months passed. Sarah de la Croix sent letters to me twice. Miriam also reported that she was going to return to Europe, following after her elder sister. Mr. Herbert de la Croix would be staying on alone in that big, silent residency building and so she asked that I write to him more often.

  Six months passed. And then happened what indeed inevitably had to happen: Annelies was summoned (along with Nyai) to appear before the (white) court. Who wouldn’t have been startled? The court again. Now it was Annelies who received the main summons.

  They left together. I stayed to carry on Mama’s work. I wasn’t able to finish all that much. I wrote some replies to the military barracks and the harbor master’s office as well as the ships’ chandlers. I noted down some new orders and some changes of customers’ addresses. But the most difficult task was getting rid of the ex-Indies Army soldiers who kept pestering me and who wanted to court Mama.

  I once saw Mama turn away some of them four times. The soliders back from Aceh seemed to have made Nyai a major topic of conversation among themselves, and then they would, like soldiers of fortune, set out to catch the rich Mellema widow.

  One of these men, an Indo, claiming he was a former Vanndrig—a junior lieutenant—even approached me. He had been awarded the bronze medal, he said, and had received ten hectares of good agricultural land near Malang as a part of his pension, and he wanted to become acquainted with Mama. Who knows, he said, perhaps later the two of them could go into partnership. At the end of the meeting, this man who claimed to be a former Vanndrig asked my help: Would I pass on all his words to Nyai? If I was successful, he said, he promised to give me whatever I asked for. This was also a part of my work.

  He went away—forgetting to tell me his name.

  Otherwise I wrote for S.N. v/d D.

  * * *

  They had been gone for more than three hours. I became more and more anxious. I stopped writing. Each time a milk cart came in, I went outside to have a look.

  Four hours passed. The carriage I had been waiting for arrived at last:

  “Minke, quickly!”

  I ran to meet her on the front steps. Mama got out of the carriage first. Her face was scarlet. She put out her hand to Annelies, who was still inside. And then out came my wife, ghostly pale and her face bathed in tears, mute. As soon as she alighted she fell into my arms and embraced me.

  “Take her in!” Mama ordered me, roughly.

  She strode quickly inside and went into her office.

  “Have you had a fight with Mama?” I asked Annelies.

  She shook her head. But no sound came out of her mouth. I went to take her upstairs. Her body was cold.

  “Why is Mama angry?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer. And she refused to be taken upstairs. She asked with her eyes to be put down on the front-parlor settee.

  “Are you ill, Ann?” and she shook her head. “What’s the matter with you?” and I became anxious that something had seriously upset this fragile doll of mine. She seemed to be in a state of total confusion. “I’ll get you something to drink.”

  I fetched a glass of water for her. She drank it, and it seemed that the tightness in her chest subsided.

  “Darsam!” exclaimed Mama from the office.

  I ran to fetch the Madurese fighter. I found him at home, in the middle of plucking out the unwanted hairs of his mustache.

  “Quick, Darsam, Mama is angry.”

  He jumped off his chair. The little mirror and the tweezers fell onto the mat. By the time I reached the office he was already inside. Annelies too.

  “Why don’t you go to sleep, Ann?” Nyai admonished her hurriedly. My wife shook her head. Mama’s face was still scarlet.

  “What’s happened, Mama?”

  Darsam saluted Nyai and departed from the office. There must have been a carriage ready, because it was only a second before the sound of wheels could be heard grinding the pebbles on the roadway in front of the office.

  Mama paid no attention to my question, went over to the window, shouted outside:

  “Hurry! Be careful!” She turned around and went across to Annelies, caressed her hair, and generally tried to humor her. “You don’t need to think about it. Let us look after it, Ann, me and your husband.” Then to me, “It’s come at last, child, Minke, Nyo, what I’ve worried about all this time. I don’t know much about the law. But we must try to fight it with all our strength and all our wealth.”

  “What’s this all about, Mama?”

  She pushed several documents into my hands, originals and copies, from the Amsterdam District Court, stamped by the Bureau of the Home Affairs Ministry, the Ministry for Colonies, the Ministry of Justice. On top of the pile was a letter from Engineer Maurits Mellema in South Africa to his mother, Amelia Mellema-Hammers, giving power of attorney to the latter party to make all arrangements in relation to rights of inheritance from the late Mr. Herman Mellema, his father, who had been killed in Surabaya, as he had been informed in a letter from his mother. Then there was a copy of a letter from Maurits Mellema’s mother, written on behalf of her son, to the Amsterdam court, asking it to look after the rights of her son over the wealth and property of the late Mr. Herman Mellema.

  Furthermore: copies of the Surabaya court and prosecutor’s office’s correspondence with the Amsterdam court, concerning whether or not there was a marriage certificate for Herman Mellema with Sanikem, whether or not there was a will made up by Herman Mellema before he died, the decisions of the court in relation to the murder carried out by Ah Tjong, a determination relating to the disappearance of Robert Mellema, copies of the certificates of acknowledgment by Herman Mellema of his children, Annelies and Robert Mellema, both of whom were given birth to by Sanikem as registered in the civil registry office. Then again there was correspondence between Nyai’s accountant and the Surabaya court all relating to the accountant’s refusal to make available any information relating to the assets of Boerderij Buitenzorg without permission from those with the proper authority. Copies of documents from the Tax Office regarding the amount of taxes paid by the company. Copies of documents from the Livestock and Agriculture Office regarding the number of cattle and their condition.

  I read each of the letters one by one under the gaze of Mama and Annelies, who seemed to be hoping for some opinion from me. I didn’t know anything at all about any of the things mentioned in all those letters. And, indeed, I had never even dreamed that such letters existed in this world. And I never knew that there were people who were actually paid to write them.

  Then there was the official document of the Amsterdam District Court. Its contents: an order that its decision on the case was to be executed by the Surabaya District Court. In brief it read:

  Based upon the application to the Court by Maurits Mellema, son of the late Herman Mellema, made through his attorney, Mr. Hans Graegg, located in Amsterdam, the Amsterdam District Court, based upon official documents, provided by the Surabaya District Court, whose authenticity cannot be doubted, determines that the entire property and wealth of the late Herman Mellema, because of the absence of legal ties between Herman Mellema and Sanikem, be divided as follows: Maurits Mellema, as the legitimate child, to receive 4⁄6 of all property; Annelies and Robert Mellema, as legally recognized children, to receive 1⁄6 each. Because Robert Mellema’s whereabouts have been officially declared unknown, both temporarily as well as permanently, his inheritance is to be managed by Mr. Maurits Mellema.

  The Amsterdam District Court also appointed Mr. Maurits Mellema guardian over Miss Annelies Mellema, as the latter is still considered to be legally under age, and so therefore her inheritance will also be managed by Mr. Maurits Mellema. Mr. Maurits Mellema, as guardian of Annelies Mellema, through his attorney, Mr. Graegg, authorized another advocate located in Surabaya to bring action against Sanikem alias Nyai Ontosoroh, and Annelies Mellema, in the Court in Surabaya, over the guardianship of Annelies Melle
ma and her future upbringing in the Netherlands.

  I felt as if I was about to faint as I read those official documents with their strange language. I could, however, understand one aspect of their contents very well: They looked upon human beings as no more than items in an inventory.

  “Mama didn’t say anything to them?”

  “Look, Minke, child, Nyo, my attorney was waiting for us there when we arrived. He was the one who arranged to get all these letters. He, too, was the one who, before the judge, told us of the decision and explained it.”

  As I listened, the words of Mother came back to me: “The Dutch are very, very powerful but they have never stolen people’s wives as did the kings of Java.” But now, Mother? It is none other than your own daughter-in-law they are threatening to steal, to steal a child from her mother, a wife from her husband; and they want, too, to steal the fruits of Mama’s hard work and everything she has strived to achieve over the last twenty years without ever a holiday. And all this was based upon no more than beautiful documents written by expert scribes and clerks with their indelible black ink that soaked halfway through the thickness of the paper.

  “It looks like we’ll have to get help from a lawyer, Mama?”

  “Mr. D—. will soon be here, I think.”

  That strange name had already made itself familiar during my recent complex and multifarious problems.

  “Mr. D—. L—.”

  For quite a long time I had tried to learn his name by heart and to write it. I had never met the man himself. Mama often went to him for legal advice. My image of him was of a big and fat man, like Herman Mellema, with thick blond hair all over his body. His name reminded me more of some kind of spirit. He must surely be a brilliant lawyer.

  “Didn’t Mama protest against the decision?”

  “Protest? I did more than that—I completely rejected the decision. I know them, those Europeans, cold, hard like a wall. Their words are expensive. She is my child, I said. It is only I who have any rights over her. It was I who gave birth to her, who have brought her up. The judge only said: The documents show that Annelies Mellema is the acknowledged child of Herman Mellema. Who is her mother, who was it that gave birth to her? I asked. The documents state that her mother is the woman Sanikem alias Nyai Ontosoroh, but. . . . I am Sanikem. Yes, he said, but Sanikem is not Mrs. Mellema. I can bring witnesses, I said, to prove that I gave birth to her. He said: Annelies Mellema is under European law, Nyai is not. Nyai is a Native. Had Miss Annelies Mellema not been legally acknowledged by Mr. Mellema she too would be a Native and this court would have had nothing to do with her. Minke, what could be more humiliating! So I said, I will fight this decision, using whatever attorney is able and willing. That’s up to you, he said coldly. Annelies just cried and cried, so that I forgot about everything else.”

  She took a deep breath.

  “You should have come too, Minke. You could have at least defended your wife and your interests, even if the court wasn’t actually in session. Yes, even the judge has a wife, and children, too.”

  I am sure that everyone will know how I felt at that moment: angry, furious, annoyed, but not knowing what I had to do. In such matters I was still a snotty-nosed little boy.

  “I said too: My child is already married. She is somebody’s wife. He then just smiled, just a shadow of a smile, and answered: She is not yet married. She is under age. If there has been somebody who carried out a marriage of her to somebody or married her, the marriage is not legal. You hear, Minke? Not legal.”

  “Mas?”

  “They then threaten to charge me as an accessory to rape because I hadn’t reported the marriage as illegal.”

  The office was still, silent. There were no customers about.

  The three of us were silenced. Once a brilliant and honest attorney would have been able to appeal successfully against the decision of the Amsterdam District Court. Oh, Amsterdam court! You had never even seen us. How can a court, and a European court too, manned by very educated people, experienced in matters of justice, with the degree of Bachelor of Laws, carry out the law this way, so opposed to our sense of law? Our sense of justice?

  “I didn’t even get on to talking about the division of the property. Yes, indeed, even though the land was bought in my name, I don’t have enough documentation to prove to a European court of law that the company itself is my property. All I tried to do was to defend Annelies. At the time, all I could think of was her. Actually our business is only with Annelies, the judge said. You are a nyai, a Native, you have no business with this court.” Mama grimaced savagely.

  “In the end,” she said later in a soft voice, “the issue is always the same: European against Native, against me. Remember this well: It is Europe that swallows up Natives while torturing us sadistically . . . Eu-r-ope . . . only their skin is white,” she swore. “Their hearts are full of nothing but hate.”

  “And the attorney, he’s a European too, Mama?”

  “Just a slave to money. The more money you give him, the more honest he is with you. That’s Europe.”

  I shuddered. Years and years of schooling were overturned with just the three short sentences of a nyai.

  Annelies had fallen asleep, exhausted by all the emotional tension; she lay with her head on top of the table. I went up to her and woke her up.

  “Let’s go upstairs, Ann.”

  She refused to move—and sat up straight again in her chair.

  “Get some sleep, Ann. Let us look after you,” entreated Mama, and Annelies complied.

  I took her upstairs, put her to bed, and began to humor her:

  “Mama and I will work hard, Ann.”

  She just nodded, and I knew with all my heart I had lied to her—I knew nothing about all the ins and outs of the law. How then could I work hard at it?

  “You stay here, yes, Ann?”

  She nodded again. But I couldn’t bring myself to leave her in this condition—like a fish that was already in the frying pan. How moving was the fate of this fragile doll, my wife. It looked as if she had lost the will to do anything at all.

  “I’ll call Dr. Martinet, yes, Ann?”

  She nodded.

  I went downstairs and gave orders that someone fetch the family doctor. I saw Marjuki racing his buggy off towards Surabaya.

  In the office, Mama was with a European man who was small-bodied, like one’s little finger, perhaps only up to my shoulder in height, thin and flat. His head was slippery bald, and his eyes just a little slanted. He wore horn-rimmed glasses. Mama was watching him reading the documents regarding Annelies from the Amsterdam District Court. So that was Mr. D—. L—. It was clear he was no spirit. And he had been Mama’s lawyer all this time.

  I was amazed Mama wanted to deal with him. Just a while ago, before the judge, he hadn’t said or done anything, had he? I watched them both. Mama was no longer so red-faced. Her movements were calmer now.

  “Minke, this is Mr. D—. L—. . . .” and we shook hands. “This is Minke, the husband of my daughter, my son-in-law.”

  “Ah yes, I’ve heard a lot about you. Could I just finish studying these documents first?” and without waiting for an answer, he resumed his work.

  A person no bigger than one’s little finger, with a face full of craters from the explosions of so many pimples—just how far would he be able to go in confronting the arbitrariness and might and coldness of European law and justice? And as a European, on whose side would he ultimately stand?

  And he studied the documents one by one, turning them over and reading them again.

  Mama rushed about finishing her own work, then even served him drinks. And the lawyer kept on with his inspection of the documents as if nothing at all was going on around him.

  Finally, one hour later, he piled the letters together and put a paperweight on top of them, a black stone. He meditated importantly, wiped his face with his handkerchief, and then gazed across at me, then at Mama, and he didn’t say a word.

&n
bsp; “So what about it, Mr. L—.?” asked Mama. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m still not sure how to pronounce your name properly.”

  He smiled—just briefly—which turned out to be because of missing teeth.

  “Oh, that’s all right, that’s just my name for signatures, Nyai. I don’t mind if people are unable to pronounce it. It doesn’t even worry me if they don’t even try.”

  “You can still make jokes while we’re suffering a situation such as this, Mr. L—! We’re already half crazy with all this!”

  “That is the way it is, Nyai, when the matter is a legal one. There is no point in changing one’s feelings or countenance. The result is just the same whether people laugh, jump up and down, or cry and wail. It is always she who determines things in the end: the law.”

  “So we will be defeated in this matter?”

  “It’s better we don’t talk about defeat, Nyai,” said the attorney and his hands began to finger the documents once again. “We haven’t begun trying yet. What I meant was that I hope Nyai will be as cold and calm as the law itself. Feelings have no influence over any of this. All anger and disappointment is in vain. Are you listening too, sir?” Suddenly he turned and faced me. “You understand Dutch?”

  “I’m listening, sir.”

  “This concerns the fate of your wife and your marriage. The other side is in the stronger position. We will try if you and Nyai still want to fight the decision; at the very least we will get its execution postponed.”

  I understood at that moment: we would be defeated and our only duty now was to fight back, to defend our rights, until we were unable to fight back any longer—like the Acehnese in their fight against the Dutch according to Jean Marais’s story. Mama also bowed her head. She more than just understood. She was going to lose everything: her child, her business, all the fruits of her efforts, and her personal property.

  “Yes, Minke, child, Nyo, we will fight back,” whispered Mama. And all of a sudden she looked old, and walked dispiritedly upstairs to check on her daughter.