Stories from Deli

V. The Police (SP 26-04-1916)

V. The Police.

Twenty years ago… Medan, a thriving village, was home to about 400 Europeans, 7000 Chinese, and 6000 natives and foreign easterners.

The corps of armed police — general police existed only in Java — was 52 men strong and had to ensure no mischief occurred.

Indeed! But the countryside, the still unsafe suburbs, had no police and lived under the pressure of the Chinese black gangs, all members of a gang of skilled criminals who supported each other and did everything to keep the encircled, whom the police were chasing, from the avenging claws of justice. Only now, after so many years, has this secret society been completely eradicated; it has taken effort and time!

Naturally, where the government authority relied only on the police in the main places, the enterprises in the field, where nocturnal human hyenas roamed, started to foster their own police with the administrator as the supreme chief. Naturally, the disastrous consequences of this anomaly, these small states within the big state, did not fail to appear. The administrators felt both planter and supreme ruler at the same time.

Finally, Mr. Rhemrev came, saw, and said that change was needed. Resident Schaap — a fine fellow! — was tasked to reorganize the police, I mean to propose a plan for it. His advice, naturally, was a major expansion of the armed police, to be stationed also in the plantations. The strength had to be increased from 400 to 800 men.

The General Secretariat was shocked, and one of the officials, plan under his arm, with a gloomy face sneaked into the office of Van Heutsz, prompting the governor-general to thunder at him:

— Say, do you have a toothache?

— No, Excellency, but Resident Schaap — nomen sit omen — proposes to increase the armed police in Sumatra’s East Coast from 400 to 800 men, and… there are no funds for it.

— Is that guy crazy? must Van Heutsz have cursed.

— You know what, I’ll send Coijn there. And so it happened that one morning the resident stared at the smiling face of the brave farmer’s son.

— You here, Mr. Coijn?

— Yes, resident. I’ve come to have a little police chat with you. You proposed to expand the armed police…

— Ah yes. Sit down, Mr. Coijn. I’ll tell you what the reason is… and the resident gave him a vivid description of the prevailing insecurity, which really made Mr. Coijn pale. But naturally, he could not rely entirely on the resident’s insights. He needed to see with his own eyes… and Mr. Coijn wandered the region in broad daylight, of course!

The commander had been hoping for a trip by the advisor… on a pitch-dark night, with nothing but black cloths around them, and suddenly the cry of a Chinese, who pushed a revolver under the respectful advisor’s nose… But this irreverent, though understandable wish was not realized. Mr. Coijn found, rightly, that he still had much good to do for the dear motherland and thus must remain alive… and clung to the resident’s side at night over a juicy chicken, which banished the worries of the countryside from his thoughtful head…

And when he, after a stay of several merry days, said one morning: ‘Resident, I’m taking off’, and the regional head looked him deep in the eyes and asked, ‘Mr. Coijn, do you understand?’ the well-aware answer came: ‘Absolutely!’

A month later, the decision came from Buitenzorg: the armed police would be 600 men strong, native sergeants would replace the European commanders at most main places, and the pay for the cadre and the men must be increased. The resident was still in his pajamas when he received the missive. He tore open the envelope and read…

— Damn it! he cursed, who had never cursed so much, and jumped up.

— That means: regression, even greater insecurity, total negation of my plans…

Excellency, Resident Schaap has crossed the bridge, but it was not followed… I have the honor!… And again, some time later, the resident’s uniform hung in the closet of a house in The Hague, where the former resident in his homeland read, how the Chinese once beautifully rampaged in Deli..

VI. The Police (SP 27-04-1916)

“It was quite late when the commander received the order to proceed with some men to the A plantation, where the chief foreman was threatened with murder. Naturally, there was the possibility that, by the time the police arrived at A, the foreman might already be hanging from a tree, but such thoughts were common in the past and besides: shouldn’t the perpetrators be caught if that was the case? With a vigorous leap, the commander mounted his steed, drew his saber, and shouted to his riders: ‘Up, men, to A!’ Oh no, it went somewhat differently. In front of the police barracks, some carts stopped.

The horses, roused from sweet sleep, hung their heads, still drowsy. And when the policemen—12 sturdy lads, not to mention the commander—had boarded, first one leg moved forward, then another, and finally, the carts drove off, down the dark road to the A plantation, where perhaps the foreman lay in his blood.

It must have been around eleven o’clock when the carts entered the plantation. The horses had held up well. The cold night air blew the sleep from their eyes and once they got their pace, their hooves clicked in a regular and fairly brisk rhythm over the dark road. Pleased with their performance, the commander, having alighted from the wagon, patted their steaming flanks approvingly and then walked over to the manager’s house, where the ‘toean-besar’ (big boss), swaying in a rocking chair, already awaited his arrival.

Hardly had the police chief stood in the front gallery when the administrator jumped up, came close to him, and looked him sharply in the eyes. — Are you… or aren’t you? — At your service! — But, what the devil, man, don’t you recognize me anymore? Give me a hand! Don’t you remember that we were thick school friends in The Hague years ago? Man, I’m totally revived seeing you again; we must drink to that.

The commander had now also recognized his former schoolmate, and a faint glow of returning youthful memories passed over his face. Together they sat down at a table, had the glasses filled, and repeatedly delved deep into the past when they both still frolicked on the Square, throwing snowballs at the high hats with shining cockades of the coachmen and footmen in front and behind the empty court carriages.

And once on an afternoon, with a fluffy layer of snow on the Square, the boy, who now had to maintain authority, had thrown a ball so hard that, bouncing off a wall, it severely wobbled one of the stately court hats. The man on the box had turned his head quickly, seen him, his face full of laughter over the successful throw, and his hands already ready to make a new ball. A police inspector was alerted… the well-known and feared Hague ‘Red Matz,’ who had grabbed the rascal by the collar and taken him to the station on Groenmarkt.

—And now you’re wearing the police uniform yourself, the planter laughed while he poured his friend another drink, stood up, and toasted: —I drink to that wobbling court hat and to your frightened face when you had to go with him! And hey, do you remember when we… and again both their thoughts went back to tempo doeloe, to The Hague school life full of fun and sunshine.

And the foreman? you ask. My dear reader, I don’t think the coolies cut his throat, but I’m not certain about that. The commander, whom I’m squeezing for these tempo-doeloe stories, hasn’t told me anything about it and there was also no chance to ask because, reminiscing about old times at the fun planter’s bitter table, also in tempo doeloe, the words came out at such a furious pace that I could only concentrate on this one point: how to write everything down.

We simply must not believe that, while the two schoolmates sat around the small table smoking and chatting, outside in the pitch-dark night, coolie hands reached for the foreman. Let’s assume then that the foreman, healthy in body and limb, was smoking a straw and the armed police officers were smoking the peace pipe with the recalcitrant coolies. Right, you can’t always tell stories of crushed coolie brains, clicking rifle bolts, and bleeding wounds, and if you have patience and time to live, then the commander will soon make you shiver with pure fear over very bizarre things and ticklish delight over the brave heroes who did not even flinch from the devil… Kieker.”

VII. The Police (SP 28-04-1916)

“The police. They are still at the table in the front gallery of the administrator’s house on A., the two former schoolmates. The commander has lit a fresh cigar, now puffing vigorously, and the planter is pouring his fourth drink. — Listen here, says the commander, while thinking about that snowball fight on the Square, clenching his right hand into a fist, — listen here, old chap, — I’m going to check on my men. — That’s right, replies the planter, standing up. — I’d almost forget what you actually came here for. — It’s a strange situation, that there’s no police on the plantations. You are lords of the manor here, and the coolies can only believe in your fairness. Anyway, changes are likely coming soon. Mr. Rhemrev is busy, as you know.

It was as if the confiding mood that each stare into their youthful past evoked suddenly broke. Something hard, something hostile trembled in the air… and the commander looked up.

Around the corners of his old buddy’s mouth were stiff wrinkles. His eyes shone fiercely, staring into the distance without focusing on any one point. Then he sat down again, snatched the glass from the table with a jerk, brought it to his mouth, but then set it down on the marble with a reluctant click.

—Let me tell you something, sobat, he suddenly blurted out in short bursts. —Rhemrev is not coming to my plantation! — What do you mean? — That I won’t receive him. I’ve governed this land for years, sternly, with an iron fist, but fairly. If the coolies have complaints, they always find an ear with me, and if they’re right, I do everything to improve their situation. You know me. I hate anything that smells of injustice. But… I also expect that the coolies, in return for their rights, will do their duties… and there’s sometimes a bit missing there. That unwillingness needs to be eliminated, by force if necessary. I know my power and I know how to act, rest assured of that.’ He had jumped up from the rocking chair, which swung violently, and now paced back and forth with short, agitated steps. Then he stopped, standing in front of the commander, who was drumming a martial beat on the marble tabletop with the fingers of his right hand.

— What do you think now? he asked abruptly. — That you’re a real hothead, replied the commander calmly and then also stood up. — You must sometimes bend. And besides: it’s in the interest of both parties that the conditions in Deli finally change. Even if no irregularities occur here, elsewhere they do. What should the judiciary do? Investigate everywhere, or only visit those plantations that are much criticized, thus making distinctions?

— There’s some truth in your reasoning, but don’t forget that the presence of Mr. Rhemrev undermines my prestige with the coolies considerably. So far they knew that I, and no one else, ruled here, and that knowledge maintained their respect and thus their fear of resistance. If Mr. Rhemrev soon visits the plantation, asking every coolie, ‘Dear boy, are they never mean to you?’… damn it, man, I won’t tolerate such an assault on my rights. Have another drink. I’ll come by with a fresh split later.’

When a carriage rolled up a week later and Mr. Rhemrev and his Chinese interpreter hopped out, a stout planter, dressed in pajamas, with hands in his pockets, was standing in the front gallery.

— Do I have the pleasure of meeting the administrator of A.? Mr. Rhemrev asked most courteously, as he approached the planter. — You are Mr. Rhemrev? — Yes. — Then I want to tell you that I have nothing to do with you. You are now in my house, on my land, and I politely, but urgently, ask you to get the hell out. Do you understand me? — Completely, Mr. Rhemrev replied, recovering immediately after the initial shock, and giving the interpreter a nod, he stepped back into the carriage and drove away. That same day, the administrator received his dismissal notice! Kieker.

VIII The black gang. (SP 29-04-1916)

We still read about them now, but oh, what those improvised bandits with their faces under a layer of soot are up to these days is completely child’s play compared to what was done in the old days. Back then, the black gang was not just randomly assembled from a collection of vegetable farmers, but it was a firmly established association, lacking only legal personality. Moreover, it was firmly rooted and had branches everywhere, even in the houses of wealthy Chinese. They made their presence known repeatedly. Now here, now there, a gambling house or a shop — their most favored targets — would be robbed, and each time the armed police went out to arrest the scoundrels, they found themselves facing an iron wall: the power of the three-fingered covenant, which managed to hide the guilty or, if that failed, gathered funds for a swift escape to the overseas.

The commander put his penholder down and stood up to go home. He carefully locked several drawers of his desk, put the keys in his pocket, then glanced at a block-note, which had a few notes written on it. —Hm yes! The black gang… again. A few days ago, they had attacked the gambling lease on the plantation Old-Polonia and murdered the Bengalese overseer. Now a Chinese shop on Polonia had been raided… The police had immediately set out and would probably bring in some suspects, but what did such an arrest amount to? As long as the entire gang along with the leaders were not arrested, there would be no end to the break-ins and murders. Now, several clever Chinese spies had set out, hopefully, they…! The commander’s forehead wrinkled, and with an annoyed jerk, he threw the block-note back on the table. —It must end now, he said aloud, as the conclusion of a reflection. — I want to arrest the gang. Then a Chinese spy slipped into the room. — Here we will divide the men into three groups, controller. As soon as I give the signal, they will charge from three sides and the black gang will be in our hands. — Excellent, approved the controller. Let a Chinese spy accompany each group.

The commander nodded and surveyed the area. Straight ahead of him was the forest of kampong-Barop; to the left, the railway tracks glistened in the midday sun. Between the earthen walls raised on four sides were the vegetable gardens, where, according to the spies’ reports, the gang must now be gathered to discuss an attack on a Chinese shop at Benda-Klappa. Whispering, the commander gave his orders. Ten men would go left, ten men right, while the remaining ten stayed in place. As soon as the signal sounded, all were to charge forward, arresting or striking down the Chinese if they resisted. The commander and the controller sat down on a hill and waited until enough time had passed to know that the two groups had reached the designated places. The men who stayed with them were ready for the attack. No sound came from the vegetable gardens. —They couldn’t have been warned and disappeared? the controller worried. — Impossible, controller, the commander reassured him. — My spy is well informed. But it’s time… Standing up, the commander took a whistle out of his jacket pocket, put it to his mouth. A shrill peal like an emergency whistle tore through the air, and now some noise also came from the vegetable gardens. The gang sensed danger…

But there was no more time to flee. For suddenly, armed police officers appeared from three sides. They surrounded the four houses, captured the Chinese present there, and seized the hashish and weapons.

And those of the gang who still had a chance to flee heard a bullet whistle over their heads, making their knees buckle, and they just dropped themselves down in a ditch or bush, where a watchman, eagerly pulling at his tail, would then gladly rescue them.

So there stood the entire gang at 3 o’clock in the afternoon, under the scorching sun, before the beaming policemen. — Commander, said the controller. — I congratulate you, but I must go. Remember: you have the gang now, but the proof is still missing… and with a meaningful smile, the controller turned around and left.

The commander scratched behind his right ear. The controller was right. You could arrest these crooks now, but when they later came before the judge, they would naturally all deny everything.

Then, in youthful zeal, the police chief ordered a punishment, but none of the Chinese, who received the otherwise well-deserved blows, let out a peep, and at the seventh strike, which sounded like a bat, the commander resignedly said: — So, enough! And when Themis later noticed that these rough-looking guys were guilty but too little evidence could be gathered, she had some of them locked up for 3 months and deported the rest… because none of them had the necessary papers and many turned out to be deserters. You have to give and take a little when you’re a judge in these parts, and behind you stands a community that supports you with holy conviction. Here are the members of the black gang, They have murdered women and children, they have stolen and plundered, now that I’ve caught them, I beg you: don’t let them go… And in the safety that returned afterward, lay the negative proof that no innocent beings with pure souls had been put in the cruel roundup!”