Heiho

By Idrus

Kartono was hard at work, bent over in a plausible imitation of a Japanese bow, his midriff pressing against the desk. He was an office clerk. His work was tedious. And his salary? It seemed that he would never get a raise. He'd been at the job for three years now and there wasn't a day that went by when he wasn't there plugging away. But had his dedication ever been acknowledged by his superiors? Dream on.

That was why a few months ago he had put his name down as a heiho, a recruit of the Japanese Occupation Force. He'd even gone through a physical examination. Whenever anyone asked him why, he would say that he was anxious to do his share to defend the Fatherland.

Kartono looked up to see the postman making his rounds. He was coming his way! What a surprise he felt when he opened the letter that was handed to him: His application to join the Heiho had been accepted! He was to present himself at the Heiho barracks that very day.

Kartono felt like he had lassoed the moon. Friends offered their congratulations as if he were a bridegroom. But even as he beamed with joy, he kept repeating his wife's name, over and over again: "Miarti, Miarti, Miarti ..." And as he spoke her name, his brow furrowed. He scratched his head as if searching for lice.

"You're a hard worker," Kartono's boss said to him, "And I believe that you'll be even more useful for our country as a heiho. Wait here a moment. There's something I want to give you. Here it is: a recommendation letter for your diligence."

Kartono knitted his brow once more. "Thank you, sir," he said, "but I'd be ever so grateful if you could write it in Japanese."

His boss was no nationalist. He was an ordinary man, a man for whom such things as food on the table for his family and money in the bank came first. As he'd once put it, he always kept to the straight and narrow, taking no risks.

Risk was not for him. But when hearing Kartono's request, he all but hit the roof. "If it's a letter written in Japanese you're after, why the hell are you working here? What do you expect me to do? Bust a gut to learn Japanese on top of everything else, just to write a recommendation letter for you? Brain-fever, that's what you patriots are suffering from! Tropical malaria, I shouldn't wonder. You're living in cuckoo- land, Kartono. I don't know why I even bother losing my temper with your sort. A bunch of apes, that's what you are, only good for pulling the wool over people's eyes. You see your friends finding a cushy berth thanks to some recommendation or other written in Japanese, and what do you do? You want one too! Monkey see, monkey do. I can't speak a word of Japanese, Kartono but just supposing I did, supposing I were to write in that chicken- scrawl of theirs that you were a pig's ass, now would you be any wiser. Tell me that!"

Kartono replied softly: "There's no need to be angry, sir. The idea wasn't for you to do it yourself. After all, there's Supadi here who's just finished an advanced course in Japanese."

The boss was finding it hard to get a grip on himself. "Look here, Kartono. I don't give a flying shit about Japanese, no matter how high level it is. You want a recommendation letter? Fine! But it's going to be in Indonesian, one hundred percent! And if you don't like it, you can leave. You're not a heiho yet, Kartono, and I'm not afraid of you!"

Kartono maintained a steady voice. "Please don't lose your temper, sir. I was only asking, that's all. I'll be perfectly happy with a letter written in Indonesian."

At the barracks Kartono was given a uniform and told to wear it in place of the clothes he had come in.

Looking at his new set of clothes, he asked one of the heiho, "Excuse me, but don't we get any underwear?"

"I asked that too," the man said, "but the Japanese officer said there wasn't any need. He said that as a heiho, everything has to be done quickly. And then he made the sound of gushing water and laughed. That's why, I'm afraid, we get no underwear!"

Kartono joined in the laughter but when he donned his uniform his lower parts started to itch, as if tiny ants were crawling into every pore.

"It feels like that at first," the heiho advised him, "but you'll get used to it. You'll even get used to the smell of sweat around here. Now, you go on home, kiss the wife and kiddies goodbye and see that you're back here by eight o'clock."

Kartono hadn't taken two steps before he knew that his shoes were too tight. And as he walked, one of his heels began to blister, forcing him to hobble with one leg straight and the other dragging along behind.

"Look at that heiho," said a passerby, pointing out Kartono to his son. "You've got to hand it to the Japanese. They certainly know what they're doing when they recruit those yokels. This one here doesn't even know how to wear shoes!"

"But how can they, Dad" the boy asked, "when their feet are so wide from trampling in the fields?"

"It's a sight for sore eyes," the father observed. "Back when the Dutch were running the place, it was the educated types that got all the attention. Nowadays, under the Japanese, it's the country bumpkins who matter. Oh they're a clever lot, the Japanese. Country folk are much easier to get fired up."

As if anxious to qualify his observation, the man continued: "Yes, indeed, the Japanese are every bit as clever as the Dutch. It's six of one and one half dozen the other when you come down to it. It's like Bung Karno says. What was that? You know, 'divide and conquer, vida dan pera.' At least I think that's how it goes."

"You're always using big words in foreign languages," the son commented. "What Bung Karno said just the other day, you can't remember today. It's funny, isn't it, how we tend to forget the things we don't like. That awful woman, for instance. What was her name?"

The father went red in the face. Mortified, he stroked his mop of a mustache. "You shouldn't speak to me like that! You may be a big boy but I'm still your father and you should show some respect. Don't even talk to me about that woman. In all my life I've had dealings with her on no more than three occasions, and then on account of your mother being such a shrew. I'm just warning you not to talk about this at home."

"Take it easy, Dad. All I was getting at is that we tend to forget about the things we don't like, and in no time at all."

"That's not true either. What about your mother? How come I've never forgotten her name?"

The son spoke plaintively: "All I'm saying is why use a difficult word when there's another, easier, word for it? If the Dutch are bastards, say they're bastards. The Japanese are bastards and the Indonesians..."

"Are stupid," the father said with a cough. "I've got to hand it to you. You are a clever lad. The best way is the easy way. After all, the meaning is the same!"

When Kartono arrived home, his wife Miarti gave him a sour look and turned away. "Look at me, Ti!" Kartono pleaded.

His wife was livid. "Look at what? At that monkey suit you're wearing? You think I fancy you becoming a heiho? I'd rather be dead! What happens if you get killed? Who's going to bring you back to me? The Japanese?"

His wife's anger came as a shock to Kartono. He honestly had thought she'd be tickled pink. "But Miarti, you see, don't you, that I want to do my share for the Fatherland?"

"Your share for the Fatherland? Where's this Fatherland of yours? Tell me that! Have you any idea whatsoever what the word heiho means? You nincompoop! A houseboy, that's what it means!"

"But don't you understand? It's you I was thinking of, not myself! Our country's issued an appeal to all her sons. You've got it all wrong, you've got to realize the times we're living in!"

"I don't give a damn about the times. But if you think I'm going to let you join the Heiho, well you can think again! You've got a choice: You can throw that monkey suit of yours into the trash, or you can give me a divorce and do as you bloody well please."

"But Miarti..."

Kartono sighed and wrinkled his brow. For a long time he said nothing. Finally, he blurted out, like a child confessing to some wrongdoing, "You're right, Miarti. I can't very well go, can I, if you're having none of it. Still, what's done is done, Miarti. Fact is, if I'm not back in barracks by eight sharp they'll have my head on a plate. Anyway, I thought you'd be proud. That's why I kept it a secret from you."

Tears rolled down Miarti's cheeks. Pity for her husband filled her heart. "If what's done is done," she said slowly, "how can I say no? Go on then, off with you."

Her words came as a surprise. Kartono was even a bit disappointed. He'd thought she'd balk to the bitter end.

"I see now that you don't love me," he said heavily, "otherwise you wouldn't let me go."

At eight sharp, Kartono was back in barracks. And eight months later he was dead in Burma. At that time Miarti was four months pregnant, by her second husband.

Glossary: Bung Karno: first Indonesian president Sukarno. Bung: term of reference to male in collegial fashion

Translated by D.W. Roskies

This story is taken from Menagerie 3, printed here courtesy of the Lontar Foundation.

Born on Sept. 22, 1921, in Padang, West Sumatra, Idrus is regarded as one of Indonesia's best writers. He wrote several collections of people-oriented stories focusing on simple human themes. He worked at Balai Pustaka publishing house and was a correspondent for the newspaper Merdeka. By 1960, he had moved to Kuala Lumpur, where he and his wife opened a publishing house and together published two magazines. He returned to his homeland in 1965 and was later offered a job at Monash University in Australia. He subsequently received his master's and later worked on a doctorate at the same university. Idrus died at his birthplace in 1979.