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four intelligence agents. Adi Tjahjono, the owner of the photo studio where he was working, told me about it. He couldn’t tell me where they took him, but probably to the detention center on Jalan Guntur or to the one on Gunung Sahari. Nobody has heard anything from him directly.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Maybe you didn’t know this but Mbak Surti, who has been interrogated by the military on a regular basis ever since ’65, was at that time in prison. And because she didn’t want to be separated from her children, when she was first called in to the detention center on Jalan Budi Kemuliaan, she took them with her and they ended up being imprisoned as well. Kenanga, who is now fourteen, has seen things that no girl her age should ever witness. And what must it be like for Bulan and Alam, who are only six and three? I simply can’t imagine. (I’m enclosing a letter for you from Kenanga. She told me she wanted to write to you, because her father had said to her that you were a second father for them. I could barely make myself read what she wrote.)
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Mother tells me to stress again the need for you to stay in Europe. Now that we’ve moved from Solo and are living in Jakarta, things feel a bit calmer—but the military’s pursuit of anyone and everyone with any link to the Communist Party has only gotten worse. Now they’re not just picking up people suspected of being party members or sympathizers. They’re bringing in families and children too.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Mother and I consider ourselves lucky to have been called to report to Jalan Guntur “only” a few times and to be permitted to go home after a day of answering their same old questions. Most of them have to do with your activities and what we knew about Mas Hananto, Mas Nug, Tjai, and Risjaf. They asked us if we knew what you were doing in Peking when you were there. I don’t know where they got the information, but they knew it was Mas Hananto and not you who was supposed to have gone on that tour to Santiago, Havana, and Peking in September ’65.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  When I was being questioned, I could hear the screams of people being tortured. Their shrieks of pain were so loud they penetrated the walls. I can only pray that their cries reached God’s ears and not just my own. But the things that Kenanga has witnessed are much more horrifying than anything I have seen. Read her letter and get back to me soon.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Jakarta is hell. Pray for us.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Your brother,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Aji Suryo
    One night, when Vivienne and I were out for a walk on Île Saint-Louis, I suddenly found that I could take my self-inflicted silence no longer. With the moon hiding in a narrow lane on the island, a lone bright eye staring at me, I put my hand to Vivienne’s chin.
    She looked at me. “You’re upset. What is it?”
    â€œI got some news from Jakarta.”
    Vivienne took my hand and pulled me to a park bench—the same park bench that had such historical importance for me.
    â€œCan you talk to me? Do you trust me enough to tell me what it is?”
    She’d finally asked the question. She was ready to learn of mypast and I was ready to share with her the blood-filled history of my homeland.
    â€œ Peut-être… ” I answered, now anxious that her body, now so close to my own, should ever leave my side.
    I kissed her softly and saw a flash in her eyes. She put her arms around me, held me tightly, and returned my kiss with a passion I had never felt before. She