Free Child of All Nations by Pramoedya Ananta Toer Page B

His heart must suffer the hurt that mine was now feeling.
    However he then whispered harshly: “You’re an educated Native! While Native people are not educated, it is you who must ensure they become educated. You must, must, must speak to them in a language they understand.”
    “Malay readers are, at the most, only uneducated European Mixed-Bloods who work in the plantations and factories.”
    “Don’t belittle,” he said more harshly. “Do you consider Kommer uneducated? He writes in Malay. He translates your writings into Malay. Do you think it was Dutchmen who defended you in your difficulties? How many of those uneducated ones were prepared to go to jail to defend you? And for how long? They defended your marriage because of Kommer’s translations, because of Kommer’s writings, not because of your Dutch articles.”
    “You’re lying!”
    “That’s what Kommer said.”
    “You’re a liar!” I roared.
    “He understands Natives better than you!” he hissed in accusation. “You don’t know your own people.”
    “You’re going way too far now!”
    “Through the Malay readers, even the illiterate eventually found out. Their feelings were moved, their sense of justice was offended—”
    I left his house, no longer able to control my fury. I went straight to the buggy, jumped aboard, and ordered Marjuki to get going.
    “Just had an argument, Young Master?” Marjuki asked.
    I didn’t answer.
    The buggy started off. From behind I could hear the sharp-pitched cries of little Maysoroh Marais: “Uncle! Uncle!”
    Damn! Keep going, Juki! Maysoroh be damned as well! It’s no loss to me if I no longer know you. Then suddenly the words of Marais from two years ago echoed in my mind: “You are educated! You must be fair and just—beginning with your thoughts.”
    Have I been just? I turned around. The little girl was still chasing after the buggy, crying out and calling me to come back. Was it right for me to treat her this way, this child who had done me no wrong? Was my treatment of her father proper? Was I right that he only wanted me to write in a language that he knew? What has this girl done to you, Minke?
    “Go back!” I ordered Marjuki.
    “Go back where, Young Master?”
    “To where we’ve just come from. Stop by that little girl.”
    By the time we reached May, she was panting desperately. I jumped down. Her face was wet with tears and her hand was still waving futilely in the air. I picked her up and carried her.
    “What’s the matter, May?”
    Between her sobs she said in French: “Don’t be angry with Papa. Uncle is Papa’s only friend.”
    That truly cut my heart. I hurriedly whispered in her ear: “No, May, I’m not angry with your papa. Truly, I’m not. Let’s go home.”
    “Uncle shouted so loudly at Papa,” she protested.
    “I won’t shout at your papa again, May,” I promised.
    “I prepared a drink for you,” she spoke again, “and you wanted to leave, just like that. Doesn’t Uncle love May any more?”
    Wiping away her tears with a handkerchief, I carried her back inside the house on my shoulder. Jean Marais was still sitting, thinking. He didn’t lift his eyes to look at me, as if he no longer wanted to know me. Maysoroh ran out to the back and returned with drinks. Then she rushed to her father’s side. Her clearly spoken words were interspersed with sobs: “Papa, Uncle is not angry with you anymore.”
    Jean Marais was silent.
    I regretted everything that had happened, as did he. I swallowed the drink May had brought. I caressed her hair, then excused myself.
    “No!” protested May. She began to cry again. “You still haven’t spoken to Papa.” She collided into me, her red eyes moist, protesting in her own way. I too was now shedding tears. I ran to Jean Marais. I embraced him; I kissed him on his thickly whiskered cheeks: “Forgive me, Jean, forgive me.” I cried and Jean cried.
    All this happened a week ago.
    Now, with Nijman’s letter in my hand, I