G. Budi Subanar lahir di Yogyakarta tanggal 2 Maret 1963. Ditahbiskan imam dalam Serikat Yesus, 29 Juli 1994. Menempuh pendidikan Filsafat Sosial (S1) di Sekolah Tinggi Filsafat Driyarkara di Jakarta 1988, dan Misiologi – Ilmu Religi dan Budaya (S2 dan S3) di Pontifica Universita Gregoriana, Roma 2002. Saat ini menjabat Direktur Pascasarjana Universitas Sanata Dharma Yogyakarta. Sebelumnya, pernah menjabat Ketua Program Studi Magister Ilmu Religi dan Budaya. Dia juga mengajar di tempat yang sama. Romo Banar adalah seorang penulis fiksi maupun non-fiksi. Karya-karyanya antara lain: The Local Church in the Light of Magisterium Teaching on Mission. A Case in Point: The Archdiocese of Semarang Indonesia 1940–1981 (Casa Editrice L’Universita Gregoriana, Roma, 2001); Bayang-bayang Kota Pendidikan. Yogyakarta: Learning Society (Penerbit Universitas Sanata Dharma, 2007); Menari di Terra Incognita (Penerbit Kanisius, 2009); Soegija. Catatan Harian Seorang Pejuang Kemanusiaan (Penerbit Galang Press, 2012). Karya ini dibuat film oleh Studio Audio Visual PUSKAT (producer) dengan Garin Nugroho sebagai director; Kilasan Kisah Soegijapranata (Penerbit KPG Kepustakaan Populer Gramedia, 2012); Hilangnya Halaman Rumahku (Penerbit Universitas Sanata Dharma, 2013); Soegija A Child of Bethlehem van Java (Penerbit Universitas Sanata Dharma, 2015).

Hak cipta ©2019 ada pada G. Budi Subanar. Terbit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan ©2019 ada pada Laura Harsoyo.

 

Rahasia Pak Dwija

 

Walaupun kami bertetangga telah cukup lama, Pak Dwija dan aku baru bersahabat setelah melayat bersama pada suatu hari pertengahan Agustus 1985. Pak Dwija pulang kantor lebih awal. Adi Malela, seorang mantan pejuang meninggal karena usia tua. Menurut desas desus, dia salah seorang teman Supriyadi, tokoh tersohor pejuang Pembela Tanah Air (PETA) yang melawan Jepang dalam pemberontakan 14 Februari, 1945. Kehadiran Pak Dwija di tempat melayat, membuka tabir hubungan antara dirinya dengan almarhum Adi Malela. Ternyata, keduanya selama ini punya sikap memegang rahasia sekuat baja. Dalam sambutan sebelum pemberangkatan jenasah, Pak Dwija menyingkapkan yang selama ini hanya diketahui sebagai desas-desus.

“Mari kita menundukkan kepala untuk kepergian Bapak Adi Malela. Jaman pendudukan Jepang, kami dipertemukan saat pelatihan di sekolah perwira di Bogor. Kami ditugaskan bersama di Blitar sampai dipercaya memimpin pasukan, memegang komando dengan katana, pedang Jepang. Itu tanggung jawab tidak mudah. Almarhum bersama saya memang pernah bersama-sama menjadi teman seperjuangan Supriyadi. Ini beban pengalaman yang kami tanggung berdua. Bahkan, gara-gara itu kami sama-sama diadili dan dihukum di Jakarta oleh tentara Jepang.” Pak Dwija tersedak. Dia membuang pandangangannya ke kejauhan sebelum melanjutkan kata-katanya, “Sekarang, Bapak Adi Malela sudah menyelesaikan hidup dan perjuangannya. Semoga beroleh istirahat abadi di hadapan Sang Khalik pemilik kehidupan.” Demikian sambutan Pak Dwija yang diungkapkan dengan suara berat dan terbata-bata.

Semenjak kematian tokoh pejuang itu, perangai Pak Dwija berubah seratus delapan puluh derajat. Dia tidak lagi hadir sebagai seorang bapak yang ramah dan riang. Wajahnya menjadi lebih banyak murung dan perangainya menjadi mudah gelisah.

Sering kali, sekitar tengah malam dari rumah Pak Dwija kerap terdengar teriakan-teriakan tidak jelas. Rumah kami bersebelahan dan kami terpaksa mendengarkannya. Beberapa tetanggapun berkata mendengar sangat jelas teriakan-teriakan itu.

Waktu-waktu berikutnya, saat sore hari, aku sering melihat Pak Dwija melamun di teras rumahnya pada saat aku melewati rumahnya dalam perjalanan pulang dari sekolah.

Salah satu sore seperti itu, sekitar sebulan setelah meninggalnya Adi Malela,  kudengar suara serak Pak Dwija memanggil pada saat kulewati rumahnya. “Nak Mas, mampir! Masih kuliah sejarah ya?” Pak Dwija agak berteriak.

“Ya, Pak,” jawabku dari luar pagar sambil turun dari sepeda. Pada saat itu, sedang pulang dari kampus. Semester akhir ini, aku  memang sedang disibukkan dengan penulisan skripsi tugas akhir bidang sejarah setempat  dengan berbagai usaha bertukar pikiran dengan dosen pembimbing. Pengolahan lapangan dan berbagai buku-buku bacaan yang ada sedang membutuhkan perhatian mendalam.

“Sini-sini, saya sedang butuh beberapa keterangan sejarah. Saya pengin mendengarkan kisah-kisah dari Masa Kerajaan Singhasari dan Majapahit. Siapa tahu bisa membantu saya.” Demikian kata Pak Dwija berharap padaku.

Demi rasa hormat padanya, kuikuti undangannya. Lama kami terlibat pembicaraan di teras rumahnya.

Sejak saat itu, Pak Dwija beberapa kali mengundangku untuk bercerita tentang sejarah kerajaan-kerajaan di wilayah Jawa Timur dan wilayah-wilayah Nusantara lainnya. Termasuk para penguasa dan beragam kisah di seputar masa-masa itu. Kebiasaan ini menjadi kesempatan bagiku untuk mengulang dan mengembangkan kuliah yang kuikuti dan mendalam pengertianku dari buku-buku yang sudah kubaca.

***

“Berkali-kali anak-anak di rumah serta putri sulungku dan suaminya memberi saran padaku untuk menuliskan pengalaman masa laluku. Setiap kali mereka membicarakannya,  aku diam. Aku menolak yang diminta oleh anak-anak dan menantuku untuk menuliskan pengalaman masa muda jaman itu.” Pak Dwija membuka percakapan. Dia seperti agak gelisah menempatkan diri pada kursi tempat duduknya. Sementara, aku duduk dengan kepala agak tertunduk sambil menunggu kalimat selanjutnya.

“Nak Mas tahu riwayat hidup Pak Adi Malela yang meninggal bulan lalu?” tanya Pak Dwija. Dia seperti  memeriksa lagi pengetahuanku tentang almarhum temannya.

“Saya tidak begitu mengenalinya, Pak. Kata beberapa tetangga dekatnya, beliau orang agak samar-samar, Pak,” jawabku berhati-hati.

“Apakah setelah kubeberkan pada saat pemakamannya semua menjadi jelas?” tanya Pak Dwija mencari tahu.

“Saya tidak banyak tahu. Katanya, Pak Adi itu menyimpan sebuah katana di rumahnya. Itu barang mahal, Pak. Ada orang yang membuat tiruannya dan memperdagangkannya. Benda pusaka yang dijadikan barang dagangan,” kataku sekenanya.

“Hush, jangan menyebut pedang samurai itu barang mahal.” Pak Dwija memalingkan pandangannya. Matanya yang keruh melayang seperti mencari sesuatu di kejauhan. Dia meremas-remas tangannya sambil bergumam, “Karena barang itu aku sekarang sering berteriak-teriak kalau malam.”

Ucapannya membingungkanku dan dengan tidak tahu bagaimana menanggapinya, aku hanya diam.

Pak Dwija berdehem beberapa kali lalu berkata, “Jadi, begini. Aku dan Pak Adi Malela itu dulu pernah menjalani pelatihan di rensetai, sekolah perwira untuk tentara PETA, Pembela Tanah air. Kami pernah menjabat sebagai seorang komandan kompi, chudanco istilahnya. Kami disapa Chudanco Adi Malela dan Chudanco Dwija. Kami bersama-sama di Batalyon Pendidikan Pembela Tanah Air di Daidan Markas Komando Blitar. Umur kami belum tigapuluh tahun saat itu.” Pak Dwija mulai bercerita. “Supriyadi pada saat itu menjabat komandan peleton, Shodanco. Sebenarnya kami atasannya…,” suara Pak Dwija pelan mendatar.  

“Oh, begitu ya Pak. Saya sama sekali tidak pernah mendengar sebelumnya,” kataku terus terang.

“Sstt, memang ini rahasia kami. Lebih dari empatpuluh tahun lamanya, kami hidup dengan rahasia kami. Kami bersikap memegang rahasia sekeras baja.” Pak Dwija mengungkapkannya dengan tegas, matanya memandangiku dalam-dalam.

“Semenjak sahabatku Chudanco Adi Malela meninggal, pertahananku jebol.  Seperti ada sebuah lubang yang menganga pada hidupku. Aku jadi banyak bermimpi buruk setelah kepergiannya. Pengalaman-pengalaman pahit yang selama ini kami simpan. Dihajar tentara Jepang habis-habisan. Ini gara-gara peleton Shodanco Supriyadi yang memberontak. Kami yang ada di tingkat kompi dan batalyon kena getahnya….” Suaranya Pak Dwija putus-putus. Badannya mulai gemetar. Dia meremas-remas tangannya seolah menenangkan dirinya sebelum memandangiku dengan tatapan putus asa.

“Ya, Pak,” jawabku. “Terima kasih saya boleh mendengarkan kisah sejarah Bapak di masa itu,” kataku lagi.

Setelah berdiam sesaat, Pak Dwija meneruskan percakapan. “Nak Mas lebih mendalami sejarah abad delapanbelas dan sembilanbelas ya?” Pak Dwija bertanya seperti mengalihkan pembicaraan. Dia sepertinya tertarik dengan tema skripsi tugas akhirku.

“Iya, Pak. Ini satu pokok besar baru yang sedang diperkenalkan. Ada beberapa pengajar kami yang punya keahlian di bidang tersebut.” Jawabku terus terang.

“Pantesan. Kalau aku tanya lebih mendalam dari masa Singhasari dan Majapahit, selalu mengatakan itu wilayah arkeologi karena terkait dengan peninggalan candi-candi. Atau, kemungkinan lain, menyebut sastra Jawa Kuna karena terkait dengan naskah-naskah sastra jaman itu. Mungkin, Nak Mas perlu tahu. Aku waktu sekolah guru dulu malah sempat mendapat pelajaran Jawa Kuna. Guru-guru kami masa itu masih senang mengajak murid-muridnya membuka tulisan-tulisan Adi Parwa bagian awal kisah Mahabarata dan sejenisnya. Sekarang malah Nak Mas sudah tidak mendapatkan kuliahnya.”

“Saya tidak tahu kalau dulu Pak Dwija jadi guru sekolah,” kataku menyela.

“Ya, memang tidak banyak orang tahu aku dulu guru sekolah. Itu sudah masa lalu,” katanya.

“Tapi, Pak Dwija  beruntung bisa membaca dan diajak mendalami sumber-sumber yang penuh ajaran budi pekerti dari warisan sastra Jawa Kuna. Sekaligus dengan sejarah-sejarah yang ada di sekitarnya. Sekarang, kami sudah dikotak-kotakkan, Pak. Arkeologi sendiri, Sastra Jawa Kuna sendiri, Ilmu sejarah juga dipelajari sendiri. Sepertinya tidak terkait satu sama lain. Perangkat bahasanya juga harus khusus. Untuk bidang sejarah menguasai Bahasa Belanda saja, saya perlu usaha setengah mati. Karena bacaan buku-buku dan dokumen laporannya sebagian besar berbahasa Belanda, belum lama saya baru bisa membaca sumber-sumber yang saya butuhkan.”

“Ya, Bapak sempat jadi guru beberapa tahun. Seorang guru muda sesuai namaku, Dwija Taruna. Tapi terputus dengan kedatangan tentara Jepang. Semua jadi kacau. Sekolah-sekolah diambil alih. Guru-guru ada yang dicalonkan jadi pelatih bela negara katanya. Jepang butuh orang yang mampu memimpin orang lain untuk mengurusi dan melatih para pemuda yang dikumpulkan dari berbagai daerah. Bapak bersama Pak Adi termasuk di antaranya. Kami dipaksa untuk membentuk pasukan rakyat yang menjadi mesin perang melawan Sekutu—dipaksa ikut menindas tenaga romusha, tenaga kerja paksa yang menderita untuk membangun jalan dan berbagai sarana tentara yang lain. Kami harus menutup mata terhadap kumiai, pemerasan dan perampasan harta rakyat dengan bermacam-macam pajak sehingga mereka semakin sengsara. Jaman serba sulit. Betul-betul serba sulit.” Pak Dwija menghentikan ceritanya sambil menerawang.

“Aku belum bisa melanjutkan ceritanya. Belum sanggup…. Mungkin masih butuh waktu untuk mencernanya kembali. Kenangan-kenangan pahit yang berseliweran. Dan, ah, siksaan-siksaan itu terlalu berat. Sungguh-sungguh di luar peri kemanusiaan.” Pak Dwija menghela nafas dalam-dalam.

Aku duduk diam, tidak berani menanggapi ungkapannya.

“Kapan-kapan akan kuceritakan lagi,” katanya menyudahi percakapannya.

Aku mohon pamit dari pertemuan sore itu.

Malam hari, aku mendengar teriakan-teriakan dari rumah Pak Dwija. Teriakan-teriakan yang tidak jelas. Aku tidak bermaksud untuk mencari tahu apa yang diteriakkannya. Tidak ada sepatah kata yang dapat kupahami. Entah, apakah Ibu Dwija atau putra-putrinya paham dengan teriakan-teriakan yang keluar dari mulut Pak Dwija.

Aku tidak bisa membayangkan kegelisahan Pak Dwija. Aku tidak bisa merasakan kecemasan Ibu Dwija dan putra-putrinya menghadapi malam-malam seperti itu.

Pagi harinya, seperti tidak terjadi apa-apa. Pak Dwija ke kantor hampir bersamaan dengan anak-anak yang berangkat ke sekolah atau kuliah. Dan Ibu Dwija juga berangkat ke pekerjaannya di rumah sakit.

Pembantu rumah tangga yang bertugas membersihkan rumah, mencuci pakaian, dan memasak, juga tidak merasa ada sesuatu yang perlu dikuatirkan. Dia mengerjakan segala sesuatunya seolah tidak terjadi apa-apa. Toh, dia sudah puluhan tahun mengabdi di keluarga Bapak Dwija Taruna.

Semua berjalan tanpa ada gejolak apa pun. Teriakan-teriakan Pak Dwija yang mengingau saat tidur malam, tentu akan lewat dan tidak perlu dikuatirkan.

***

 Seperti biasa, Pak Dwija telah menghadangku sepulang dari kampus. Kami duduk di teras berdua. Di tengah percakapan, lalu Pak Dwija mulai membeberkan lagi kenangan pahitnya. “Aku duluiadili tentara Jepang dalam Gunritsu Kaigi, mahkamah pengadilan militer di Jakarta. Termasuk almarhum Chudanco Adi Malela,” kata Pak Dwija menyela di tengah pembicaraan.

“Dari Blitar kami dibawa ke Jakarta. Bertruk-truk jumlahnya. Katanya dijanjikan tidak akan dilakukan tindakan apa pun. Ternyata kami dimasukkan di penjara. Pakaian kami dilucuti, sampai hampir telanjang. Beberapa komandan, termasuk almarhum Adi Malela dan aku ditempatkan secara terpisah. Kami dianggap sebagai tokoh-tokoh kunci yang merancang pemberontakan Februari itu. Anggota lainnya dikumpulkan di satu ruangan.

Iya, caranya tentara Jepang memaksa para pelatih PETA yang dikira terlibat dalam pemberontakan terlalu kejam. Aku dihajar dengan senjata sinai, batang bambu yang dibelah dan di dalamnya diisi per besi,” katanya lagi.

“Berat rasanya kehilangan Chudanco Adi Malela yang mengalami nasib sama. Selama ini dia menjadi sinar indah yang menerangiku. Dia menjadi sahabat yang hadir saat berbagai kesulitan melanda. Bahkan, saat beban keluarga akibat dari banyak anak yang harus kutanggung sehingga hampir menghancurkan diriku, dia membantu dan menguatkanku. Sekarang sepeninggalnya, terpaksa aku mengais-ngais lagi dan mengingatnya. Butuh usaha keras untuk bisa menuliskannya.”

Pak Dwija meninggalkanku di teras. Dia masuk ke dalam. Keluar lagi membawa satu amplop dan sebuah pedang katana.

“Dalam catatan ini,  kutulis hampir semua peristiwa yang bisa kuingat dan menghantuiku sepeninggal Chudanco Adi Malela. Memang belum bisa semuanya. Selama ini kami bisa menyimpannya, karena kami masing-masing bertindak tahu sama tahu. Sepeninggal dia, duh, rasanya peristiwa-peristiwa itu muncul tanpa kendali. Kata orang serumah, setiap kali di tengah tidur, aku berteriak-teriak tidak keruan. Putra sulungku pernah secara sembrono menyarankanku. ‘Pak, guncang-guncangan itu ditulis saja.’ Guncangan apa! Tahu apa dia dengan pengalaman-pengalamanku!”

“Ah, sudahlah,” katanya sambil seperti menepiskan sesuatu. “Ini ada beberapa catatan di sini. Ada juga beberapa gambar peta. Dan lukisan wajah Supriyadi. Silahkan, Nak Mas toh akan menjadi ahli sejarah. Jadi, pada Nak Mas catatan ini kuserahkan,” katanya sambil menyerahkan satu sampul berisi kertas-kertas.

Aku menerimanya  tanpa bisa berkata apa-apa. Hanya berkaca-kaca.

“Sstt, Nak Mas. Ini katana yang pernah kuceritakan dulu.” Pak Dwija memegangi sebuah katana yang sudah berkarat, sambil menunjukkannya padaku. Gagangnya masih kokoh, tak ada pelindung tangan di bagian pegangannya. Lalu Pak Dwija meletakkannya di atas meja. Pandangannya kemudian menerawang.

“Boleh saya melihat dan memegangnya?” tanyaku meminta ijin.

“Jangan. Kamu tidak paham. Itu bukan barang mainan,” kata Pak Dwija seperti bersalin tekanan suara daripada biasanya. Duduknya tegak. Tatapan matanya tidak mengarah kepadaku seperti kalau dia bicara dalam keadaan biasa.

“Kami sama-sama dihukum oleh pengadilan militer Jepang. Shodanco Supriyadi berhasil melarikan diri, menghilang dan memang tidak pernah kembali. Kami jajaran anggota batalyon yang menjadi atasannya, dan anggota PETA yang lain di bawahnya, harus menjalani pengadilan militer Jepang di Jakarta. Tentara Jepang itu terus menerus bertanya pada kami tentang keberadaan Shodanco Supriyadi. Siksaan-siksaan panjang yang mengiringi pelaksanaan  pengadilan itu, membuatku berteriak-teriak setiap malam. Aku tidak mampu menahannya sepeninggal Chudanco Adi Malelo.” Pak Dwija bercerita.

Aku diam tanpa menanggapi sepatah katapun. Aku juga tak berani memandangi Pak Dwija yang tetap duduk tegap di tempatnya.

“Maaf, Nak Mas. Mungkin aku masih harus menuliskannya lagi. Iya, anak-anak dan menantuku  telah menyarankannya. Silahkan, Nak Mas pulang.

“Ya, Pak. Terima kasih,” jawabku singkat.

“Saya menunggu cerita rahasia katana,” kataku sebelum pamit.

“Terima kasih,” kata Pak Dwija sambil berdiri. Dia berdiri tegap di sebelahku, seakan mengiringkanku segera beranjak dari tempat dudukku.

Aku beranjak dan  berdiri menghadap Pak Dwija. Menundukkan kepala dalam-dalam ke arahnya lalu pamit.

“Ya, silahkan,” jawabnya singkat.

***

Beberapa hari berlalu, aku lewat halaman rumah Pak Dwija tanpa dihadang oleh Pak Dwija. Biasanya dia memintaku singgah dan mengajaknya berbincang-bincang. Menanyai tugas skripsiku atau dia bercerita tentang pengalamannya. Aku merasa seperti ada sesuatu yang kurang.

Kisah katana sepertinya belum selesai diceritakannya. Masih ada yang kutunggu kelanjutan ceritanya. Ah, suatu ketika Pak Dwija pasti menceritakannya.

Suatu sore, Bu Dwija yang menghadangku. Dia mempersilahkan aku singgah.

“Nak Mas, tolong mampir sebentar,” katanya ramah.

Aku duduk di tempat biasanya. Bu Dwija masuk ke rumah dan keluar lagi dengan beberapa lembar kertas di tangan.

“Beberapa hari ini Bapak sakit, Nak. Sekarang juga sedang tidur. Beliau pesan untuk menyerahkan kertas ini pada Nak Mas. Bapak meminta Nak Mas membacanya di sini saja. Silahkan.” Katanya sambil menyerahkan kertas itu padaku.

Bu Dwija masuk rumah lalu kembali dengan membawa teh untukku.

Aku mulai membaca tulisan tangan Pak Dwija, Tulisan seorang guru pendidik sebelum kedatangan Jepang. Dengan bentuk-bentuk hurufnya yang berirama.

“Akhirnya, setelah hampir sebulan menjalani pemeriksaan, hukuman pengadilan militer Jepang dijatuhkan. Kami masuk penjara. Chudanco Adi Malela dan aku dihukum limabelas tahun. Lain-lain hukumannya beragam. Badan penuh bilur-bilur bekas siksaan. Bahkan dua gigiku tanggal. Kami tidak tahu akan seperti apa nasib kami selanjutnya.

Beberapa bulan setelah kemerdekaan, kami dibebaskan dari penjara. Chudanco Adi Malela dan aku bersepakat bersama-sama kembali ke Blitar. Beberapa orang di Blitar masih mengenali kami. Dua katana komando yang ada di bekas Batalyon Pendidikan Pembela Tanah Air di Daidan Markas Komando Blitar diserahkan kepada kami berdua. Mereka anak buah yang lolos dari pengadilan Jepang yang masih mengenali kami. Sungguh terharu kami dibuatnya.

Kami berdua sempat jadi Tentara Rakyat Indonesia berpangkat Letnan Kolonel. Ah, apakah pantas penghargaan itu. Jadi, kami bersepakat meninggalkan tugas pekerjaan militer. Masak, tentara Indonesia di sebuah negara merdeka punya anggota yang menyandang luka bekas siksaan tentara Jepang. Ah, hanya akan menjadi aib. Kami memilih kerja di jalur sipil. Masing-masing berpisah. Ternyata dipertemukan lagi di kampung ini. Sekarang, Chudanco Adi Malela telah mendahuluiku. Entah kapan giliranku.”

Sampai di situ tulisan Pak Dwija selesai.

Kupandangi kursi kosong di depanku. Di situ, Pak Dwija biasanya duduk. Meja di depanku juga kosong. Di meja itu Pak Dwija pernah menempatkan katananya.

Aku meletakkan kertas yang selesai kubaca. Perlahan-lahan, aku menyandarkan diri di kursi yang kududuki.

***

 

Laura Harsoyo dilahirkan di Makassar dan dibesarkan di Palembang dan Surabaya. Laura menyelesaikan kuliah S-1 pada tahun 1994 dari jurusan Sastra Inggris, Universitas Airlangga.

Laura suka membaca karya sastra dan tertarik untuk menulis fiksi. Sewaktu bekerja di dunia perhotelan selama 21 tahun, dia sempat menulis artikel kuliner untuk majalah kuliner Chef! di Jakarta. Dia juga bekerja sambilan sebagai penerjemah lepas untuk berbagai lsm yang harus memberi laporan kepada yayasan pendana.  Sekarang Laura khusus bekerja sebagai penerjemah lepas untuk nonfiksi maupun fiksi.

Laura dapat dihubungi di: harsoyolaura@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mr. Dwija’s Secret

 

Even though we had been neighbors for a long time, Mr. Dwija and I only became friends after we both attended the wake of another villager on a hot mid-August afternoon in 1985. Adi Malela, a war veteran, had died of old age. According to rumors, the departed was a friend of Supriyadi, a famous figure of the Defenders of the Fatherland (PETA) warriors who had fought Japan in the uprising on February 14, 1945. The presence of Mr. Dwija at the wake revealed the relationship between himself and the late Adi Malela. Apparently, both of them had vowed to keep their friendship a deep secret. In his eulogy at the wake, before departing for the burial, Mr. Dwija confirmed what had only been a rumor all this time.

“Let us bow our heads in honor of Adi Malela. We met during the Japanese occupation, in the military academy in Bogor. Together, we were assigned to Blitar, where we were trusted to lead the troops and enforce discipline with katanas, Japanese swords. It was not an easy responsibility. The deceased and I had indeed become Supriyadi’s sympathizers. This was an experience we shared. In fact, this was the reason we were both tried and convicted in Jakarta by the Japanese military.” Mr. Dwija cleared his throat and gazed into the distance before he continued in a heavy, shaky voice. “Now, Adi Malela has completed his life and struggles. May he receive eternal rest with the Creator of Life.”

After the death of the revolutionist Adi Malela, Mr. Dwija’s temperament changed one hundred and eighty degrees. He was no longer a kind and cheerful father. Most of the time, he looked depressed and was easily agitated.

Often, around midnight, shouts came from Mr. Dwija’s house. Because our house was next door, we were forced to listen. Some of the other neighbors said that they heard the shouts, too.

I often saw Mr. Dwija sitting on his porch when I passed by his house on my way home from school in the afternoon. He always seemed deep in thought.

One such afternoon, about a month after the death of Adi Malela, Mr. Dwija’s hoarse voice called out as I passed by his house. “Son, come by! You study history, right?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered from outside his fence while getting off my bicycle. I was returning from campus. Aside from exchanging and discussing ideas with my academic advisor during this final semester, I was also preoccupied with preparing my final thesis in the field of local history. Field work and a lot of reading material required my attention.

“Come, come, I need some historical information,” Mr. Dwija beckoned. “I want to hear stories from the era of the Singhasari and Majapahit kingdoms. Who knows, maybe that will help me.”

Out of respect, I accepted his invitation, and we engaged in a long conversation on the porch of his house.

After that day, Mr. Dwija invited me often to tell him about the history of the kingdoms in the East Java region and other regions of the archipelago, as well as give him information about the rulers and other various stories around those times. These visits became an opportunity for me to revisit and further develop the lectures I had attended and to deepen my understanding of the books I had read.

***

One day, Mr. Dwija started our conversation in an unexpected way. “Many times, my children tell me that I should write about my past experiences. I remain silent every time they bring up the idea. I refused their request to write down the experiences of my youth during that time.” Mr. Dwija seemed nervous about sharing this information with me.

I waited, with my head slightly bowed, for his next sentence.

“Do you know the life story of Mr. Adi Malela?” Mr. Dwija asked, as if checking how much I knew about his deceased friend.

“I didn’t really know him, sir,” I responded cautiously. “According to some of the closest neighbors, he was a rather peculiar person.”

“His story did not become clearer after all I revealed during the funeral?” Mr. Dwija asked.

“I don’t know much. Rumors have it that Mr. Adi kept a katana in his house. That is an expensive item, sir. There are people who duplicate and trade them. Heirlooms that are treated as merchandise,” I said abruptly.

“Hush! Don’t refer to a samurai sword as an expensive item.” Mr. Dwija’s cloudy eyes looked into the distance. Squeezing his hands together, he muttered, “It’s what often makes me scream at night.”

His statement confused me, and because I didn’t know how to respond, I kept quiet.

Mr. Dwija cleared his throat several times and then began his story. “So, here it is. Mr. Adi Malela and I once underwent training at Rensei-tai, a platoon commander school for PETA soldiers, Defenders of the Fatherland. We once served as chudanco, company commanders. We were addressed as Chudanco Adi Malela and Chudanco Dwija. We were assigned together at the Educational Battalion of the PETA at the Command Headquarters in Blitar. We were barely thirty years old then. At that time, Supriyadi was a platoon commander, a shodanco. We were actually his superiors …” Mr. Dwija’s voice trailed away.

“I’ve never heard that before,” I said truthfully.

“Shhh, this indeed was our secret,” Mr. Dwija said, holding my eyes firmly with his own. “For more than forty years, we lived with our secrets and kept things under wraps.

“My defense broke when Chudanco Adi Malela passed away,” Dwija continued. “He was my best friend. It seems that there is a gaping hole in my life. After his death, I have many nightmares about our bitter experiences, such as being beaten by the Japanese soldiers. Those of us at the company and battalion levels bore the consequences …”

Mr. Dwija began to tremble and his voice faltered. He squeezed his hands together as if trying to calm himself before sending me a sad look.

“Thank you for allowing me to hear your stories in of the past,” I said.

After a moment of silence, Mr. Dwija abruptly switched the subject. “You’re studying the history of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, aren’t you?” He seemed interested in the theme of my thesis.

“Yes, sir. It is a new subject, and several of our lecturers have expertise in this field,” I answered candidly.

“No wonder. When I research deeper about the Singhasari and Majapahit eras, it is always said that they are an archeological site, due to the temple ruins. Or, Ancient Javanese literature is mentioned, as it is related to literary manuscripts of the era. Perhaps, son, you should know that when I was studying to become a teacher, I studied the Ancient Javanese language. Our teachers back then were happy to invite students to read the writings of Adi Parwa, the beginning part of the Mahabharata story, and the likes. It seems that now this course is no longer taught.”

“I didn’t know that you used to be a school teacher,” I interrupted.

“Yes, there are not many people who know that I was a school teacher. That was in the past.”

“But you were fortunate to read and be invited to explore the sources that are full of characteristic teachings from the Ancient Javanese literary heritage as well as the history around them,” I said. “Nowadays, the disciplines are separated, sir. Archeology is a separate subject; Ancient Javanese literature is another subject; and history is a subject of its own. It is as if they are not interrelated with each other. Being familiar with the language most information of each discipline can be found in is yet another requirement. For history, I had to make a great effort to master the Dutch language, as most of the books and documents are in Dutch. It was only recently that I was able to read the resource material I need.”

“Yes, I was a teacher for several years,” Mr. Dwija continued. “A young teacher, according to the meaning of my name. My teaching career was interrupted by the arrival of the Japanese troops. Everything got messed up. Schools were taken over. The Japanese needed people who could lead the others to take care of and train the young people gathered from various regions. Adi and I were among them. We were forced to form a people’s army to fight against the Allied forces – forced to join in suppressing the romusha, forced laborers, who suffered to build roads and army facilities. We had to turn a blind eye to kumiai, an extortion and deprivation of people’s properties through various taxes which made them even more miserable. It was a difficult time. It was really very difficult.”

Mr. Dwija halted while reminiscing, then said, “I can’t continue the story. I can’t. Perhaps I need more time to digest the bitter memories that are still haunting me. And, oh, those excruciating tortures were really beyond humanity.” Mr. Dwija took a deep breath.

I sat quietly, not daring to comment.

“I’ll tell you again, some other time,” he said, ending the conversation.

I asked to be excused and left.

That night, I heard screams from Mr. Dwija’s house. I couldn’t understand a single word, and I did not intend to find out. I wondered if Mrs. Dwija or their children understood what Mr. Dwija’s was screaming about. I couldn’t imagine Mr. Dwija’s anxiety, nor the anxiety that Mrs. Dwija and their children faced on such nights.

In the morning, it was as if nothing had happened. Mr. Dwija went to work, his children went to school, and Mrs. Dwija went to her job at the hospital.

The family’s housemaid, who was in charge of cleaning the house, washing clothes, and cooking, also did not seem worried about anything. She did her chores as if nothing had happened. After all, she had served Mr. Dwija’s family for decades. Everything continued as normal, as if Mr. Dwija’s delirious screaming during the night would certainly pass and did not need to be worried about.

***

As usual, Mr. Dwija was waiting for me when I rode my bike home from campus. We took a seat on the porch together. In the middle of our conversation, Mr. Dwija started to reveal his horrific memories. “I was tried in the Gunritsu Kaigi, the Japanese military court in Jakarta. So was the late Chudanco Adi Malela. From Blitar, we were transported by truck to Jakarta,” he paused; then continued, “They promised that nothing would happen to us, but we were put in prison. We were stripped of our clothes except for our underwear. Several commanders, including Adi Malela and me, were held separately. Other members were placed in one room. We were considered to be the key figures who had designed the February uprising.

“Yes, the Japanese soldiers were very cruel to the PETA trainers and instructors who were suspected of being involved in the rebellion. I was beaten with a sinai, a club made from a piece of bamboo that was split and filled with iron springs.”

Mr. Dwija paused, then continued. “It was hard to lose Chudanco Adi Malela, who suffered the same fate. All this time, he was like a beacon for me. He became a friend who was present when various difficulties struck. In fact, when the burden of raising so many children almost destroyed me, he helped and encouraged me. Now that he is gone, I have to dig up all those hardships and remember them. It takes a lot of effort to write them down.”

Mr. Dwija went inside the house, leaving me on the porch. When he returned, he held an envelope and a katana.

“In these notes, I have recorded almost all the incidents I can remember that have haunted me after the death of Chudanco Adi Malela. I still haven’t written down all of them. All this time, we kept these experiences to ourselves because each of us knew what we shared. But after he died, those terrible events appeared in my mind and dreams without warning. My family says that I always scream wildly in the middle of my sleep. My eldest son once casually advised me, ‘Dad, you should write down all those shocking memories.’ What shocks! What does he know about my experiences!”

“Ah, never mind.” Mr. Dwija brushed the memory aside. “Here are some notes. There are also several maps and a painting of Supriyadi’s face. Please, son, let me give you this since you will be a historian.” Mr. Dwija handed me the envelope filled with papers.

At a loss of words, I accepted them with glistening eyes.

“Shhh, son. This is the katana I told you about before.” Mr. Dwija showed me a rusty katana. The handle was still sturdy, although there was no hand guard. Mr. Dwija laid it on the table. His gaze wandered.

“Can I hold it?” I asked.

“Don’t!” Mr. Dwija said sternly. “Don’t you understand it is not a toy?” Mr. Dwija’s tone of voice was harsher than the way he usually talked to me. He sat up straight and did not look at me as he normally did when we spoke. He swallowed before continuing his story.

“We were both convicted by the Japanese military court. Shodanco Supriyadi had managed to escape. He simply disappeared and never returned. We battalion members, who were his superiors, and other PETA members, who served under him were all tried at the Japanese military court in Jakarta. The Japanese kept asking us about Shodanco Supriyadi’s whereabouts. The memory of the long tortures that accompanied the trial is what makes me scream at night. I am unable to bear the burden after the passing of Chudanco Adi Malela.”

I remained silent and did not dare look at Mr. Dwija, who remained seated rigidly in his chair.

“I am sorry, son. Maybe I should write more. Yes, my children and my son-in-law have suggested it. Please, son, go home now.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” I said and added, “I’ll be waiting for the story of the katana.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Dwija rose and stood silently next to me, as if wanting me to move from my seat.

I too rose and, facing Mr. Dwija, bowed my head deeply towards him before saying goodbye.

“Yes, please,” he answered, briefly.

***

A few days passed, and I didn’t see Mr. Dwija on his porch when I biked by on my way home from school. Usually, he would ask me to stop for some conversation. He’d ask me about my thesis assignment or tell me about his experiences. I missed our talks.

And the story of the katana was unfinished. I was still waiting for the story to continue. Ah, one day Mr. Dwija would tell me the rest of it.

Then, one afternoon, Mrs. Dwija hailed me.

“Son, please stop by for a while,” she said kindly.

I sat at my usual seat on the porch.

Mrs. Dwija went into the house and returned with several pieces of paper in her hand.

“For the past few days, Mr. Dwija has been ill,” she said. “In fact, he is sleeping right now. He asked me to give you these papers, son. He asked that you read them here. Please.” She handed me the papers.

Mrs. Dwija went into the house, then returned with a cup of tea for me.

I began reading Mr. Dwija’s handwriting. Being a teacher before the arrival of the Japanese, the letters of his handwriting flowed with a certain rhythm across the page.

I read: “Finally, after a month of interrogations, a Japanese military court passed our sentence. Chudanco Adi Malela and I were sentenced to fifteen years in prison. Other penalties varied. Our bodies were bloody and scarred from lashings. Two of my teeth were broken. We didn’t know what our fate was going to be.

“A few months after the independence, we were released from prison. Chudanco Adi Malela and I agreed to return to Blitar. We hoped that someone in Blitar would still remember us. Two katanas, left in the former Defenders of the Fatherland Educational Battalion at the Daidan Blitar Command Headquarters, were handed to us. Those who had escaped the Japanese court still recognized us. We were truly moved.

“Both of us were offered the chance to be members of the Indonesian People’s Army with the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. We wondered if we were worthy of the position and decided to leave the military. How could the Indonesian army have members like us who were still traumatized by the torture of the Japanese soldiers? Ah, it would only be a disgrace. We chose to work in the private sector and went our separate ways, only to be reunited again in this village. Now that Chudanco Adi Malela has passed, I wonder when it’s my turn.”

There, Mr. Dwija’s writing ended.

I looked at the empty chair in front of me, where Mr. Dwija usually sat. I looked at the empty table, where Mr. Dwija had once placed his katana.

I put down the papers I had read and slowly leaned back in my chair.

***