“I’ve never deceived you, my wife, have I?” asked the bupati, as if he himself had been the object of the criticisms.
No one responded. And the discussion did not reach any decision.
The next morning I received a message from the local Sarekat branch that they wanted me to attend a meeting. To ensure that I didn’t violate the instructions my grandfather had received, I told them that I could meet them at Cepu station at nine o’clock the next morning.
The next day at Cepu station I was met not just by one person but by twenty-one, including the whole of Cepu sub-branch. We had no choice but to stay overnight in Cepu. We held our meeting in the Cepu soccer field, the first time it had been used for a public meeting. There was nothing important discussed. They just
wanted to meet someone from the Central Leadership, and to apply for Cepu sub-branch to be made a full branch. The discussion was held in Malay and Javanese.
Princess stayed in a losmen, guarded by Sandiman’s men.
At this meeting I told them that while they had no doubt studied about the boycott method, they must not use it without permission from the Central Leadership. I also told them that they must not do anything against the Samin movement. If they were not in a position to help the Saminites, then they should just remain silent. They mustn’t join the priyayi in insulting them.
But there was something more important that I discovered during this journey. It was late evening by the time I returned to the losmen. I found Princess asleep, curled up around the pillow. Underneath the pillow I saw some papers with writing on them. Slowly I pulled them out and tried to read them by the wall light. She had written, in Dutch, a commentary on
De Zonnige Toekomst.
But it was not just a commentary on the book itself. She also attacked the Bupati of Rembang for deceiving the girl from Jepara when he proposed to her. At the bottom, she had signed Princess Dede Maria Futimma de Sousa. But then she had crossed out that name. I put the papers back under her pillow.
As I lay there next to her I began to wonder whether my wife had been writing for some of the Dutch publications. She had never mentioned it. Perhaps her experience in editing the magazine had given her the confidence to submit some articles without telling me. As I neared unconsciousness I came to the tentative conclusion that she was writing for Dutch magazines. The girl from Jepara’s book may have also encouraged her.
Now I couldn’t sleep. Why had she never told me? Had she written anything else major that was not for publication? I got up again and groped around looking for other papers. I even opened up the suitcase. But I could find nothing.
Let’s hope that she had not revealed anything about the inner workings of the Sarekat, deliberately or otherwise. Her secretiveness was suspicious. What were her motives? It wasn’t just to practice her Dutch! Perhaps she was afraid I would stop her? No, that was also impossible.
I must watch this development closely.
The second day back I started work again at the office. I read
Princess’s article in one of the Dutch papers, although her name wasn’t there. A few days later a great storm engulfed the Bupati of Rembang.
I pretended not to know. But then I understood: Princess had been disappointed all this while that
Medan
had never published anything about the girl from Jepara. And I continued to pretend I didn’t know. She herself didn’t say a word, as if nothing was happening. But the attacks on the husband of our late friend became stronger and stronger.
I once tried to start a conversation about the article that had started all the furor. But she didn’t say anything, pretending she didn’t know anything about it. Later, I tried a second time. This time she replied: “Yes, I would like to read that article.”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t read it yet?”
“No, not yet.”
I showed her the article. And then both of us started up a little play of our own. I went on: “The author is obviously a woman. And not just any woman. I can tell from the anger she displays toward the husband of that girl, that perhaps she herself is also upset with her own husband—if she has one, that is. In any case, she is obviously very intelligent. And such intelligence just adds to the beauty of any woman. And if she is a woman who is already beautiful, then all this will make her a star that will shine out among all women.”
She didn’t read the article, but listened to what I said.
“How can you tell all that, Mas?”
“Well, what do you think?”
“In my opinion, the author is obviously an old Indo who has been disappointed by his marriage. He lives in a dream that the girl from Jepara is his wife and he loves her and cares for her in accordance with her self-respect, education, and dignity.”
She was imagining me as an old Indo, I thought.
“But I’m not old yet,” I disclaimed.
“I didn’t mean you, Mas.”
“But you haven’t read the article yet.”
She groped about, realizing that I knew that she had already read the article. Not just read it, but that she had written it herself.
“I contacted the editor of the paper. He happens to be a good acquaintance. I asked him who was the author. He wouldn’t tell me. I went down into the print shop. One of the setters showed me a copy of the original that hadn’t been destroyed yet. But
unfortunately there was no name there. So when did you read the article?”
“From this clipping.”
“You’ve only read two lines and you’re giving your opinion.”
“Yes, I am a fast reader. Mas didn’t observe very closely this time. I’ve actually read all of it, not just two lines.”
“Buy you haven’t even unfolded it yet.”
Again she groped about.
“Princess, why won’t you admit that you have read the article?”
“I can tease my husband occasionally, can’t I?”
“Of course.”
“Yes, I have actually read the article.”
“But I have never brought this newspaper home,” I said, smiling. “And we don’t subscribe. So where did you get a copy?”
“From the wrapping of the fried peanuts.”
And that was as far as I could take things. We had bought some fried peanuts the day before and they had been wrapped in newspaper. I had failed to get her to confess. And I had no right to try to force her. That was her right, the right of privacy of a modern person. She didn’t want to be known as the author. And I respected her attitude and her privacy.
And the waves of attacks on the bupati did not abate. One day three people brought in another article, which they had signed, attacking the bupati. They were all middle-ranking officials from Rembang and they wanted
Medan
to publish it. They had listed the time and place where the bupati had carried out the things they accused him of. And what was the point of
Medan
helping fan these attacks? Who would benefit if the target of all these attacks was removed? One of the newly announced candidates for bupati who had not yet got a district and who were all favorites of the government?
And in Rembang, he who suffered this storm of insult and criticism without having any means of defending himself fell sick. Ah, the Liberals’ game of lauding the girl from Jepara! The girl from Jepara raised up van Aberon, so that van Aberon might then stride upon the stage as governor-general.
The Knijpers had disappeared from the face of the earth. TAI now emerged, though cautiously and somewhat afraid. A feeling of hostility developed among us toward the Indos. Douwager perhaps
understood my feelings because he never came around anymore. Wardi now spent more time with him and did not come anymore to the offices either.
Sin Po
kept stealing
Medan’s
readers. If this kept on
Medan
might have to close up.
The editorial staff decided to join the fray and suggested we publish reports from Rembang, though not as sharp or as detailed as the others. I did not agree with them. We had to find another way to keep up
Medan’s
circulation.
The key to solving this problem came to me indirectly from my father-in-law. During one of our visits to see him came this question: “Where is your friend, Child, the one who came with you here the very first time?”
“You mean the one who drove the automobile?”
“Yes, he said he was on his way to Jeddah.”
“Ah, Hans Haji Moeloek, Bapak.”
“Yes, yes, Haji Moeloek. How is he?”
This little bit of a conversation reminded me of this Indo author, who wrote so simply and interestingly. I telegraphed Marko to come straightaway to Buitenzorg.
I returned to Buitenzorg from Sukabumi, together with my father-in-law. Two hours later Marko arrived in a taxi. I gave him part of the manuscript of
The Tale of Siti Aini.
“Set it all, Marko. Publish it as a serial. Don’t lose or damage any page. There are no other copies. Guard this manuscript as your life.”
“Very well, Tuan.”
“You understand what I’m saying?”
“I will guard this manuscript, Tuan.”
“Good. Go back to Bandung now. Begin things tonight.”
And so it was that I showed the good side of this Indo, just when his people were threatening us. His writings redeemed all the evil doings of the Indos. Such a story has never been published before, even in Dutch.
My predictions weren’t wrong. After just a week of its appearing in
Medan
, everyone was going crazy over the serial. Our subscriptions didn’t go up, but they stopped declining. Meanwhile our sales in the kiosks, especially in the sugar towns, shot up. After three months and the story still hadn’t ended, we started to receive letters asking who was this Haji Moeloek, because his writings did not exhibit any haji-ness or religiosity, and they told
about the life of Eurasians in the sugar plantations. What a pity that he himself did not want to be known by anybody.
One of the colonial papers said that it guessed that Haji Moeloek was the pen name of an Indo, given the background in which his story was set. The paper praised
Medan
to the heavens for winning the confidence of such an Indo writer, who was by no means a lesser writer than Francis. Francis was, at that time, considered the great teacher of the Indos.
These words kept the TAI movement under control for the time being.
Medan
could breathe easily for a while. Subscriptions began to increase again.
“These Indos are always off balance,” Hendrik Frischboten commented.
“You’re an Indo too, Hendrik,” I reminded him.
“Yes, but not a part of them as a social group, a group whose fortunes are affected by the ups and downs of the Indies economy. Whenever things are going bad for the big European companies—and therefore the government—they become vicious. When things are profitable, they become tame again. Minke, have you studied the latest statements of the Sugar Syndicate?”
Here was a new issue to be faced. The Sugar Syndicate planned to reduce the rent they paid to peasants for their land from 130 cents per
bahu
to 90 cents per bahu for eighteen months.
This was not just a matter for the newspaper.
I summoned all the leaders of the SDI to discuss the matter. I explained to them, based on all the material I had gathered together, what a disaster this would be for the farmers in the sugar areas. I began my story by telling them about one of the first victims of sugar—Nyai Ontosoroh. Then I mentioned other names such as Troenodongso, Piah, Sastro Kassier, and Plikemboh, and now there was this new problem which would hit everybody. From one hundred and thirty cents to ninety cents at a time when the sugar price was riding high on the upsurge of the world trade in sugar!
No doubt new regulations would be announced that fitted in with the Sugar Syndicate’s plans, just as Ter Haar had once explained. The sugar plantations would expand, and the land available for growing rice would decrease. Meanwhile the sugar mills and plantations would not be able to provide jobs for those pushed out of rice farming. The TAI would also no doubt be used to
ensure that these plans of the Sugar Syndicate would be implemented successfully.
This would mean a new struggle and I had to convince the SDI leadership of this. But they didn’t understand that the interests of the farmers and their interests were the same. They considered that the losses that were going to be suffered by the peasants would not affect them, the independent class, the free people, the merchants.
“As the farmers’ incomes decline, so will the merchants’ trade,” I said during the meeting.
They did not want to understand. While the craftsmen still worked, and the factories and workshops still employed their workers, and the number of priyayi didn’t decrease, the merchants’ incomes would not suffer.
“We share no interests with the peasants,” another contradicted me.
“But these farmers are our brothers, our sudara, our fellow countrymen. The big European, Arab, and Chinese companies want to squeeze all the money and land out of them that they can. If we let this happen, then it will be the same as giving our approval to it; we will be approving this evil. Is this allowed by Islam? Won’t we, as Moslems, be ashamed of allowing this to happen?”
“But the Europeans, Chinese, and Arabs are very powerful! How can we stop them?”
“Does it mean that just because they are powerful everything they do is right and cannot be opposed?”
That meeting resulted in something I had never expected—the SDI split into two. My group called the others hypocrites. And they called us the group who didn’t know what we were talking about. They continued to use the name Sarekat Dagang Islamiyah. We gave in on this and called ourselves the Sarekat Dagang Islam.
According to Hendrik Frischboten, a split like this was a normal part of the life of an organization. No organization could avoid it forever, no matter in what country.
“It is a crystallization that takes place naturally but is also scientific,” he said confidently. “There is no need to be discouraged.”
I convinced myself not to be discouraged. This split meant now that the SD Islam had to fight the decision of the Sugar Syndicate and side with the farmers. The split in fact gave us all
a great boost in spirits. At some considerable cost we printed up leaflets and statements to be distributed to all the branches around the Indies that were willing to listen to us as their leaders.