The Interpreter from Java

by Alfred Birney

  At a police guardhouse we came across two pemudas sitting on a looted truck that had belonged to some Chinese merchant. Soetardjo had a quiet word in their ear and we all climbed aboard. Ciska was white with fear, but she held herself well. With Soetardjo at my side, those bastards took me for a friend.

  From Peneleh we drove down Jagalan to Contong Square, then through Pasar Besar via Sulung to downtown Surabaya. Armed Indonesian freedom fighters were everywhere. As we drove, Soetardjo spoke. ‘For over 350 years, the Belandas have exploited and humiliated the Indonesians, trampled us underfoot. All that is over. Now that Japan has capitulated, we will not accept a new Dutch government. We will fight for our independence under Sukarno. When I die, a brother-in-arms will take up my weapon. We hate the Belandas. And we hate those rich Indos who think they are better than us and treat us with contempt. We will kill them all. Make sure you are not among them when we do. I know you, but many of my comrades do not.’

  After driving for half an hour through streets strewn with bodies and burned-out cars, we arrived in Dapuan. I thanked Soetardjo and his comrades for their help, and said farewell with a two-faced ‘Merdeka!’

  Ciska was shivering. I put my arm around her as we navigated the narrow side streets to her home. Her worried sister was waiting at the door and they fell weeping into each other’s arms. I could not bear to watch and turned to go, but Ciska clung to me, terrified that I would be murdered if I left. It was already dark and I decided to spend the night with her. When I left the next morning, Ciska gave me her rosary beads and prayed to Our Lady to protect me. I arrived home safely to find Uncle Soen at our table. He told me about the revolutionary forces in and around Surabaya. In addition to the Indonesians’ newly formed military, there were militia units of the BKR, fanatical Hizbullah fighters and Masyumi Islamic nationalists, all fighting for Merdeka.

  Captured by pemudas

  Days later, I set off on my bike to visit Aunty Kiep but when I reached Kedungdoro I was stopped by a bunch of hotheads armed with guns, knives and clubs. They made me get off and bow to each of them in turn. I bowed low in front of what looked like a ten-year-old boy brandishing a Japanese rifle, then straightened up and slapped him in the face. Rifle butts came at me from all sides. I went mata gelap, picked up my bike and swung it wildly, knocking my adversaries to the ground. I continued to ram them till I had no strength left, then threw the bike at a pemuda who was charging at me with a bayonet fixed to his rifle. More rebels came running over. I hit the ground, felt blows raining down on me and passed out.

  When I came to, the stink of shit and urine filled my nostrils. It was daylight and I was locked in a toilet. A pemuda opened the door and handed me a bowl of tapioca. I asked him how long I had been there. He told me I had been locked up for over two days, and that I was to be taken out the next day at noon and killed by firing squad.

  That evening, I took out Ciska’s rosary beads and prayed to God. I was bathed in a cold sweat, but as I finished my prayers I felt a sudden rush of courage, hope and strength. High on the wall was a window with rusted bars. The cistern had come away from the wall and, by placing it on the toilet, I was able to climb up and loosen the corroded bars one by one. I heaved myself up, stuck my head through the opening and realized that my shoulders would fit through. Looking down, I saw a guard pacing the length of a narrow alley below. I waited until he reached the far end, then gripped the broken bars again, squeezed through the window and dropped to the ground. The moon was shining into the alley but I pressed myself to the wall and waited in the shadows for the guard to approach. When he was only a few feet away, I lunged and kicked him full in the stomach. He dropped his weapon. I grabbed it by the barrel and smashed his skull with the butt, then removed the bolt and tossed it in the gutter.

  The alley led to a side street off Kedungdoro. Sticking to the shadows, I made my way to the main street. It was close to midnight and there were not many people about. My clothes were covered in blood and hung from my body in tatters. I crept along until I reached the junction with Kembang Kuning, where I headed for Simo. Aunty Kiep was still awake when I turned up at her door and nearly had a fit when she saw the state I was in. She burst into tears and bundled me into the bathroom, where she made me undress and gently began to wash me. She dried me with great patience, for every part of my body was badly hurt. I was covered in lumps, scratches and cuts, and shaking with tension and emotion. Aunty Kiep gave me a sarong to put on and let me lie on the divan. She washed my underpants, the only item of my clothing still in one piece, and hung them by the kitchen fire to dry. Then she made a paste from medicinal herbs, smeared it on plantain leaves she had cut into patches and applied them to my wounds, binding them in place with strips of cloth. The poultice felt cool against my skin and gradually the pain ebbed away. I fell into a deep sleep but woke the next morning groaning because my arms and legs hurt so much. I staggered to the kitchen and Aunty Kiep gave me a plate of kacang ijo mashed with brown sugar. I stayed with her for a few days, until my wounds had healed a little.

  Aunty Kiep received a visit from Pah Tjillih. He beckoned me into Aunty’s bedroom and closed the door behind him, so that we were alone. Pah Tjillih began to pray and told me to spit on his palms. Then he loosened my bandages and began to run his hands over the wounds on my arms and legs, murmuring all the while. A miracle occurred. Every last one of my wounds healed. The pain disappeared and I felt the strength return to my muscles. I clasped Pah Tjillih’s hands and thanked him with all my heart.

  ‘No need for thanks, my boy,’ Pah Tjillih replied. ‘I am happy to help. My love for you is strong. Yours will be a long, hard struggle. But you will survive.’

  Meanwhile, Aunty Kiep had found me a change of clothes. Kneeling before Pah Tjillih to show the depth of my respect, I asked this saintly man for a fighting knife and begged him to bless it for me. He took me to his home. There I first had to sit quietly and drink coffee with him. Then he went to his bedroom to pray and returned with an impressive blade. ‘I have infused this dagger with magic powers,’ he said. ‘Wherever you go, the enemy will avoid you. A vision has told me that you will return home along Kedungdoro. There you will find your lost bicycle leaning against a fence.’

  I thanked Pah Tjillih and, following the route he had given me, found my bicycle in the place he had predicted. Astoundingly, it was still in one piece. When I arrived home, Mama asked me where I had been for days on end. When I told her I had been staying with Aunty Kiep, she heaved a sigh of relief.

  I had no job, and therefore no money. The terror that had gripped Surabaya struck fear into everyone. Indonesia’s revolution was becoming more ferocious by the day. The hatred towards Belandas and Indos grew. Slogans and rallying cries were daubed on the walls of public buildings, and even on the sides of buses and trams. DUTCH GO HOME!

  One morning, Uncle Soen came to see me, his face creased with worry. ‘Arto,’ he said, ‘I know what happened to you over the past few days. Take care! I saved your life when you were a child and have always treated you as my own son. When anything happens to you, I sense it strongly. I am a crippled man and unable to give you physical protection. The only protection I have to offer is spiritual and magical. Friends informed me that yesterday three trucks carrying Dutch and Indo women and children to Tanjung Perak were halted by mobs of pemudas. Every woman, every child was slaughtered on the spot and mutilated beyond recognition. The trucks were set ablaze. There are many who detest the colonialism of the Belandas, but these murders have nothing to do with the revolution declared by Sukarno. If you go wandering through the city again, Arto, for heaven’s sake do not forget to pin your Chinese badge to your shirt!’

  Cycling down Ngemplak on my way to Ketabang district a few days later, I heard someone call my name. Four heavily armed pemudas across the street beckoned me over. I cycled towards them slowly, feeling for the knife on my belt, but as I got closer, I recognized Radèn Soemarno, a classmate from Queen Emma School.

  ‘Hey, Nola
n! Remember me?’ he shouted.

  ‘Yes, of course I remember you. How are you doing?’

  ‘I am well, as you can see,’ Radèn Soemarno answered. ‘Let me introduce you to my comrades. We have joined the Indonesian Army.’

  I shook hands with the other three pemudas and studied their faces.

  ‘I cannot understand why you side with the Belandas,’ Radèn Soemarno continued. ‘Your mother is Chinese. Your European father refused to recognize you. Like your mother, you are peranakan. Join us in our fight against the Belandas! You were born here, too. This is your native soil, your home. What is Holland to you? Everything you know of that country you learned from schoolbooks, just like us. You should be fighting alongside us, Nolan.’

  ‘I respect your patriotism, Soemarno. But why sacrifice innocent women and children?’

  Radèn Soemarno smiled but I could see the hatred in his face. ‘You are an illegitimate child, Nolan,’ he answered. ‘In fact, you are not a Nolan at all. You bear your mother’s name, Sie. We were friends for many years, got up to all kinds of mischief together. We fought, shared the bitter and the sweet. You are more than a friend to me – you are my brother. I saw how Indos humiliated and despised you, simply because you were born out of wedlock. In the Japanese time we were often together. You and I committed acts of resistance along with other young Indonesians. You think of yourself as an Indo, but where were those Indos when you needed them?’

  Radèn Soemarno’s words hit home. I had to admit he was right, and my convictions were shaken. He saw through me, as did his comrades. One by one they embraced me and told me they understood the problems I had faced in life. Yet somewhere deep in my soul, I did not feel at home in their world. Since my earliest childhood I had often felt that I did not belong in the Indies.

  Our conversation at an end, we mounted our bikes and cycled to Simpang, where a large crowd of pemudas and other heavily armed freedom fighters were gathering. Gunshots rang out all around us, along with cries of ‘Merdeka’. One of Radèn Soemarno’s friends shouted above the din: ‘Let’s head over to the Holland Club! Terrible things are happening there!’

  On the way I saw dead bodies in the streets, the corpses of Dutch people and Indos. Arriving at the Holland Club, formerly known as the Simpang Club, the streets were so crowded that we had to get off our bikes and walk. I crossed the street and cut through the garden of a dentist’s surgery, bike and all. Radèn Soemarno and his friends followed. Portraits of Queen Wilhelmina, Princess Juliana and Prince Bernhard were being smashed and burned in the streets. The Dutch red, white and blue was set alight amid loud cheers and more cries of ‘Merdeka’. What happened next will stay with me forever. A heavily pregnant woman was mercilessly attacked with a bamboo spear. Her unborn child came flailing into the world to be stabbed by another spear. A few yards further on, I saw a young girl beheaded with a samurai sword. Radèn Soemarno and his friends were sick at the sight. It was there by the Holland Club that I took my revenge.

  As their faces turned chalk white, I glared at Radèn Soemarno and his friends in contempt. ‘Is this how you want to achieve your Merdeka?’ I asked them. ‘Look at what these madmen are doing!’

  ‘Nolan, I never expected this!’ Radèn Soemarno whined.

  I stood there, half-dazed by the atrocities around me, until dusk fell and I said goodbye to my Merdeka friends. I cycled home along Tunjungan and Genteng. The streets were littered with bodies, some in a state of decay, others charred because they had been set alight. Turning onto Trompstraat, I ran into Soetardjo. He signalled to me and I got off my bike. We walked together in the direction of his kampong.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Soetardjo asked.

  ‘I have come from Simpang. I was with Radèn Soemarno, an old school friend who has joined the Indonesian Army. They were lynching people over there. Is that what this revolution of yours demands?’

  Soetardjo grabbed my shoulder. ‘Nolan, these vicious outbursts towards the Belandas have got completely out of hand,’ he said. ‘Those murdering fanatics belong to Bung Tomo’s movement and to Hizbullah. Even as a BKR militiaman, I am powerless to stop them. It is barbaric, I agree, but when all is said and done the Belandas have it coming.’

  ‘I understand their rage, Soetardjo, but surely you can negotiate with the Belandas?’

  ‘Nolan, you were raised by your mother. She belongs to this country, even if she is peranakan Chinese. This soil is where you were born and raised. This is your home. How were you treated by the Belandas? They trampled you underfoot. We Indonesians are your friends. That is why you have to fight alongside us, even when the British forces dock in Tanjung Perak. I have heard that a British landing fleet is on its way from Singapore to occupy the entire region and pave the way for the restoration of Dutch rule. That is against the will of the Indonesian people. And so there will be war. Our military and political organizations are in the highest state of readiness. Guns and ammunition have been stockpiled, some taken from the Japanese forces, some smuggled in. I can make sure you are well-armed. Remember, you are already under orders to patrol the neighbourhood with a takeyari. To refuse is an act of treason and you know the punishment that awaits traitors. And before I forget, Sie-Nolan: never speak the name of Queen Wilhelmina in the company of other pemudas. They may be the last words you utter.’

  Allied troops in Surabaya

  My twentieth birthday on 28 September 1945 went by unnoticed. Tensions were running too high for celebration. Day in day out, I sat with my ear glued to the radio. At this time, I was forced to join the other men of Undaan Kulon on nightly neighbourhood watch patrols, armed with a bamboo spear.

  The next day I went to Uncle Soen’s house in Peneleh kampong, not far from where we lived. He told me that British and Indian troops had landed in Batavia. Their mission was to disarm Japanese soldiers and to free prisoners of war and those being held in the internment camps. Uncle Soen was aware of my pro-Dutch sentiments and believed that I did not belong here in the East. For Pah Tjillih too, this was no secret. That saintly man sometimes had dreams about me and shared his premonitions with Uncle Soen.

  A few weeks later, I was back at my uncle’s door. In his kitchen, he opened a newspaper and said, ‘The Allies will be here soon, and when they come the entire population is being told to resist with every weapon they can lay their hands on – knives, sticks and stones, if need be.’

  ‘But Uncle Soen, that is madness! Who can brave machine-gun fire armed with a knife?’

  ‘Arto, people are willing to give everything for Merdeka, even their own lives. Hatred of the Belandas runs deep. But for you I have come up with an escape plan. That is, if you dare. I have persuaded my contacts to help you. Many of them know you, some even sympathize with your Western attitudes in this Eastern world. What do you say?’

  ‘Uncle Soen, if I can cross over and join the British, I will turn against the pemudas.’

  Early one morning at the end of October I heard Royal Navy cannon fire coming from the port of Tanjung Perak. It was music to my ears. Fires broke out everywhere in the centre of Surabaya. I had no appetite for breakfast and left the house, much to Mama’s indignation. Behind our house, I slipped into the kampong to go to Uncle Soen’s. On the way, I saw Soetardjo again. He was wearing the green uniform of the Indonesian Army and carrying a Lee Enfield rifle with bayonet and two cartridge boxes. Four hand grenades hung around his neck. He approached me and said, ‘Nolan, beloved brother and comrade, I bid you farewell. I am going into battle against the British invaders. If I should die, remember that I have always been a good friend to you, in spite of the political divide between us.’

  I saw tears in Soetardjo’s eyes, embraced him and realized this might be the last time I would ever see him.

  On the nights that followed, I patrolled the neighbourhood armed with my takeyari. On my belt, I carried the dagger Pah Tjillih had given me. I had more faith in a blade than a spear. At Piet Heinplein I climbed a tree and looked in the direction of th
e port. I saw the traces of flares in the distance and flashes of light caused by mortar shell impacts. I heard the guns roar.

  From Uncle Soen I found out that the British troops had occupied and cordoned off the entire port area. The vanguard was now advancing towards the city. The roar of the guns came closer.

  Walking down Undaan Kulon the next day, I saw armoured vehicles and jeeps driving up the other side of the canal. I ran over the pedestrian bridge to Undaan Wetan to take a closer look. As I thought, they were British military vehicles. One of the trucks, manned by Indian soldiers, stopped close to where I was standing. A Punjabi officer got out and waved me over.

  ‘Are you Indonesian?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir,’ I answered, ‘I am Chinese, half-caste Chinese.’

  I then explained to him in English where he could expect resistance from pemudas. He took a notebook from his shoulder bag and made a record of the intelligence I supplied. He seemed extremely grateful. I asked the Punjabi lieutenant if he would let me accompany them as a guide, but he refused. The resistance they expected to encounter would be much too fierce, he said.

  Disillusioned, I returned to my neighbourhood and saw thick columns of smoke rising above Ngemplak. The next morning I walked over Genteng Bridge to Ngemplak. The decapitated bodies of British and Indian soldiers were floating in the water. The streets were strewn with corpses, among them Indonesians. In the tropical heat, the stench was appalling.