Love and Death in Bali

by Vicki Baum

  “For the welfare of our colonies . . . you go to the war in the cause of the Netherlands . . . to fight for law and order—not to lay down your arms until. . . the rebellious enemy must be chastened . . . your good rifles . . .” The officer had a fine commanding voice, but in the general hubbub only scraps could be heard.

  Above, the president of the committee made a carefully composed farewell speech which she had committed to memory days before, after many fair copies had been written out. Shrill and yet shy, grilling in her tight corset, a champagne glass in her gloved hand, she stumbled through the greatest moment of her monotonous colonial existence.

  “… when you come back victorious … your mothers will be proud of you … no danger will deter you from chastising the enemy … every woman and girl of Surabaya wishes you a glorious victory …”

  “Hip-hip hurrah!” burst from the ranks with amazing precision. They were strong, hardy-looking fellows, mostly fair-haired, wearing wide-awake, turned-up straw hats, whose brims could also at a pinch be turned down. Their blue uniforms were clean and their buttons shone. Part of the native troops, Javanese and Ambanese, had already embarked at Tandjon Priok. The Van Swoll was for the officers and men of the 18th Battalion and the engineers. She was not really a warship, but one of the mail-boats which were taking part in the transport of the expeditionary force.

  “And when do you expect to be back again?” the girl of the moss roses asked.

  “In two or three weeks,” Dekker replied. “May I write to you perhaps in the meanwhile?” he added with a beating heart.

  “That would be delightful—but are there post-offices in Bali?” “All that will be arranged, of course,” Dekker said proudly. He felt that he was marvellously fitted to play his part in a campaign, and absolutely in his proper place. “I am jolly lucky to see active service the moment I come out,” he said enthusiastically.

  “Yes—but it is a pity I got to know you today,” the moss-roses remarked. “Now I shall worry about you.”

  “Not really?” Dekker exclaimed delightedly. “Then I shall have to write to you every day. May I?”

  “You don’t even know my address.” “No—but I know your name—Brigit—” “Brigit what?”

  “That I confess I don’t know. But I heard your mother call you Brigit.”

  The band was playing “William of Nassau.” The men clattered on and on up the gangway and vanished below. Farther out in the roadstead lay the smaller vessels; and natives, impressed for road-making and porterage, were being rowed out to them. They were singing uproariously. The laughter and talk on board the Van Swoll became deafening. The champagne, the heat of the afternoon sun, the music, the speeches and the war-like elation proper to the occasion all went to the officers’ heads. Fathers, colonels with paunches, tightly buttoned into their service uniforms, were embraced by wives and children. Javanese girls craned their heads through the grating of the Marinelaan for a last glimpse of their Dutch sweethearts. A few of the soldiers below were drunk and, poking their shaven heads out of the portholes, they shouted unintelligible ribaldries across to the quay. Cheers were raised, officially and spontaneously, for Queen Wilhelmina.

  “And you must stop the Balinese being wreckers and burning women,” Brigit said to Lieutenant Dekker.

  “We’ll make short work of them, you can count on that,” he assured her. She looked at him with admiration. Every woman looked at every man with admiration. They were heroes and they wore smart, new blue uniforms. Every woman was a beauty in the men’s eyes—for they were leaving them for the great adventure of war.

  “And do us honor over there among the savages,” said the president of the committee, who was overcome by all the champagne she had drunk in the flush of patriotism. “All ashore, all ashore,” the N.C.O. called out as he made his round of the ship, followed by two trumpeters.

  “And when I come back?” Lieutenant Dekker asked breathlessly. “I shall be there—down there beside the lamp—waiting,” Brigit said.

  At the last moment he took courage and kissed her after all. It was a thoroughly incompetent kiss, the kiss of a beginner, which alighted on her cheek instead of her lips. Nevertheless, Brigit made a great deal of it and closed her eyes as though she was going to faint. Dekker suddenly felt that his uniform was too tight for him in all directions. The last he saw of Brigit was her slightly crushed puff-sleeves, as she followed her mother down the gangway. The two bands now played turn by turn, now the one on deck and now the one below on the quay. The cable was let go—to the accompaniment of such wavings and shoutings and weeping and laughter that there could scarcely have been a single inhabitant of Surabaya left at home. The Van Swoll swung slowly, very slowly, from its berth on the Marinelaan into the bay where the other ships lay one behind the other. Two torpedo boats escorted the transports that were leaving Surabaya that evening. The flagship, the Wilhelmina, was already at Buleleng. The Both and the Bromo had sailed that morning. It was now after four o’clock, and as soon as they left the harbor and stood out to sea a light breeze sprang up. But the sea was calm and as smooth as oil as far as the eye could see.

  Lieutenant Dekker stood at the taffrail until the quay became a tiny streak and then vanished from sight. The sun was level with the water in a sparkling track of flame. The band stopped playing, but occasionally there was wafted from the shore the tum-tum-tum accompaniment which was all that could still be heard of a military march. Life was glorious. Lieutenant Dekker, twenty-five years old, champagne within and the campaign before, felt like the hero of a novel. When night abruptly came down he retired to his cabin.

  It was very small, with two bunks one above the other. His servant had carried down his small case, to which his water-bottle and sword-belt and other articles of his equipment were strapped. It had a warlike air. A lean man, enterprising, with a resolute nose and spectacles that seemed out of place on it, was already in the cabin. “I am Pastor Schimmelpennick,” he said. “Do you mind if I take the bottom bunk? I’m not a very good sailor.”

  The lieutenant looked at his cabin companion and saw the chaplain’s badge on his open uniform collar. “I much prefer the top one—to escape the cockroaches,” he said amiably. The pastor was white in the face, but he smiled bravely. Dekker was a little disappointed at having a pastor foisted on him instead of being with a fellow-officer. He was the youngest officer in his battalion and little acquainted with the others. He found many of the older officers very underbred, but they made a great deal of their experience in colonial warfare. They wore long beards and Dekker thought this unsuitable in officers, and it made them look older than they were. Many were pot-bellied from drinking too much beer during a long period of peaceful garrison life.

  Dekker himself was slim and he had a small, turned-up moustache, of which he was all the more proud because he had only recently acquired it.

  He rummaged about in his small trunk and pulled out a little book that every officer had been given; it contained information about the strange island they were bound for. He then went on deck. The sea still looked smooth but the ship had begun to roll. Dekker sat down near a lamp in the saloon and began to read. “The Balinese is cruel and cunning in spite of his apparently gentle disposition.” Beer and cards were already in full swing at the far end of the saloon. At another table there was a party of officers swopping stories. After a time Dekker grew restless and went out on deck. Black velvet on her hat and round her waist. What charming taste she showed! Three other ships with their chains of light preceded the Van Swoll, all bound for adventure. The soldiers sang between decks. The two torpedo boats, which had accompanied the flotilla so far, now fell back. Suddenly there was a report like the sound of guns; but it was only rockets discharged from the torpedo boats as a farewell salute. They were red and green and their reflections in the water were like long brightly colored snakes. Dekker was moved; it was glorious to be facing danger.

  “… and promise me to beware of bad water,” his mother had written f
rom Enschedé. “Uncle Pieter says you must always wear flannel round your stomach at nights, the tropics are treacherous …”

  More rockets. “For the soldier’s life is free—” the men sang below. Brigit de Haan, 43 Kaliasin, Surabaya.

  The pastor was asleep when Dekker climbed into his bunk. There were no blackbeetles up there but plenty of ants. In the morning when he looked through the porthole the coast of Bali was in sight. It looked much the same as the coast of Java.

  The shore was crowded with people who were all intent on watching the eleven warships drop anchor off the coast of Sanur. It was high tide and the waves ran high. Sometimes a gigantic green wave rolled in and hid the ships with its white foam. Women, children and grandfathers had all left (heir villages so as to miss nothing. They squatted on the sand, the elders chewing sirih and the children smoking cigarettes or sucking sugar-cane. They were all afraid, but curiosity won the day. Sarda, the fisherman, who had good eyes, counted the guns that stared at the land from the decks of the two great gray ships. “I can see four on each,” he announced. “They look out of their holes like dung-beetles.”

  “They have twelve in the puri of Badung,” Krkek said thoughtfully.

  “Will they shoot?” a woman asked as she drew her shawl anxiously over the baby sucking at her breast.

  “Why should they shoot?” Krkek said. “They will not shoot at us. We are only peasants and have nothing to do with them. Badung town is far away and those big ships cannot get to land. If the white soldiers had any sense they would have little prahus instead of ships that look like elephants and cannot come inshore.”

  “What do you think they will do?” Pak asked his father. The old man sat on his heels on the beach, chewing and shading his eyes with his hand, for they could not see into the distance.

  “I do not know, my son,” he said, after taking time for reflection. Pak was disconcerted. It was the first time the old man had had no answer to give.

  “Have ships like this never come before to fight against the lord of Badung?” Pak asked.

  “Never to Sanur,” his father replied. “When I was a child they came to Buleleng and many people died.”

  A circle gathered round the old man to hear what he said. “We peasants have no quarrel with the white men,” Krkek said. “No one will die on our coast.” The rice had to be planted in many sawahs, the sharing out of the water was all arranged, and if all was not done to the day and hour confusion would follow. Krkek, the head of the subak, wanted peace and order in his district. “There is no use in sitting here, staring at the foreigners’ ships,” he warned them. “The chief thing is not to get behind with the work on the land.”

  “What are we to do in the fields now?” Rib asked disrespectfully. “The sun is retiring to its house and it is evening.”

  “There are flags of red and white and blue on every ship,” Sarda announced, still giving the rest the benefit of his keen sight.

  “What can that mean?” some of the others asked.

  Pak’s father gave his mind to the problem. “They mean to say that they honor our gods,” he said at last. “White for Shiva, blue for Vishnu and red for Bramah.”

  Pak was proud of the old man and most of them accepted his explanation with respectful attention. Others laughed. A few vendors had appeared on the beach, mostly hard-working women such as Puglug and Dasni. But the men were too excited to squat down by them and eat rice. “Here comes the punggawa,” Krkek said, and they all turned their eyes on the road that led from the village to the shore.

  The punggawa was accompanied by several servants, including his umbrella-carrier, and the people crouched down respectfully with folded hands to greet him. What surprised them was that one of his servants walked in front of the punggawa waving a piece of white cloth from a bamboo pole. “Is there some magic in the white flag?” the women asked in whispers. Krkek gave the explanation.

  “No,” he said. “It is a sign that we mean peace.”

  “That is so,” was murmured on all sides. They felt much consoled now that the punggawa was among them, bearing the flag of peace.

  After the punggawa’s servant had gone far out on the wet sand waving the white flag, a boat put out from the largest of the ships. The men all crowded to the spot it was seen to be making for. A white flag was flown from the bow of the boat, too.

  Some fishermen helped to beach the boat when it reached the shore. The rest of the men squatted respectfully in a long row on the beach with their wives and children behind them. Some of them recognized the man who got out of the boat and went up to the punggawa. He was no Dutchman but the gusti Nyoman of Buleleng. Nor were the crew that rowed him ashore Dutch but Javanese in uniforms, which in spite of their dark skins made them look like Dutchmen.

  After the punggawa had greeted the gusti and exchanged a few words with him, something unexpected occurred: the punggawa, without servants or umbrella, stepped into the strange boat. The gusti sat down beside him, one of the Javanese gave orders and the boat was pushed off. Soon they saw it rising and falling among the breakers, whose force had now diminished, and reaching the big ship.

  “What is the meaning of that?” Pak asked in dismay. “Have they taken our punggawa prisoner?”

  “We must stay here and see what happens,” Krkek said.

  They all squatted down again and the whole shore was fringed with a long line of men, silently waiting. Now, too, a few went to buy sirih or food and the vendors made a few kepengs. It got cooler and quite dark. The Great Mountain far away held the light longest and then it, too, vanished from sight. The ships were now lighted up. Some boys of the villages brought maize straw from the fields and made a fire. No one thought of going home.

  It was pitch-dark when the boat returned and brought them back their punggawa. All the men crowded up to pull in the boat and help him ashore. He went to the fire and they saw that his face looked serious.

  “People,” he said, “it will be best if you go to your homes now. Nothing will happen to you if you do as I say. I am riding at once to Badung to carry an important letter to the lord. When I return I will tell you what you are to do next. I warn you not to do anything to rouse the anger of the Dutchmen, for they are strong and have many guns. Now go home, and peace on your sleep.”

  The people dispersed quickly, murmuring in low voices. They were in haste to reach their homes, for it was dark and some, such as those who came from Taman Sari and Renon, had a good distance to go.

  “What does it all mean?” Pak again asked his father. Suddenly the land in which they dwelled had become strange and eerie. No one knew whether offerings ought to be made, or of what kind, to ward off an evil they felt was in the air, but of which they knew too little to be able to say in what shape it would descend upon them.

  “The punggawa is right,” the old man said. “It is as on the day of Njepi when heaven is cleansed and all the demons come down to earth. Then, we, too, stay in our houses and whoever ventures into the streets is punished. It is like that now. If the Dutchmen come to our villages and find the streets empty they will go back to their ships as the demons have always gone, thinking there were no people in Bali.”

  Pak found this enlightening. They finished their journey in silence. They left the oil lamp burning all night, but nothing untoward occurred, although the people of Taman Sari often waked and listened. It was a night like any other: the dogs barked and the cicadas were loud.

  Early next morning the kulkuls beat an urgent and persistent summons. Pak hurried to the town hall without even going first to bathe. The wide village street was full of men hurrying through the half light, winding on their headdresses as they went and making brief remarks. When they reached the village hall they found the street and the grass in front of it, where usually the cocks were paraded, crowded with lancers on horseback. They recognized the Dewa Gdé Molog, the captain of the lord’s warriors. The horses neighed and bit each other, and the dust rose in clouds as they pawed the ground. Molog came
forward to the edge of the large balé, and the people of Taman Sari crouched down reverently almost under the horses’ hooves.

  “Men of Taman Sari,” Molog shouted in his powerful voice, “the lord of Badung has sent me to make it known to you that the Dutch mean to invade our country. You are called upon to give your last drop of blood in its defence. All the men of this village who live on the rice of our lord and master have been given weapons and instructed in the use of them. Use them now against the enemy as our honor and safety demand.”

  The men were as still as death when they heard this. The Dewa Molog took a kris in its scabbard from the hands of one of his warriors and held it aloft. Then he drew the weapon from the scabbard and pointed it to the four quarters of the sky. It was Singa Braga, the Sacred Kris of the Lion and the Snake. Not a sound was to be heard but the barking of the village dogs.

  “This is the proclamation of the lord, your master: Follow the Sacred Kris and defend your country,” Molog cried. He pushed the sword back into the scabbard. Then he cleared his throat, for he had over-strained it during his ride from village to village, proclaiming everywhere the call to battle. The men of Taman Sari maintained their embarrassed silence. They were still squatting there when Molog and his mounted men had vanished in a cloud of dust on their way to Sanur.

  “Where is the punggawa?” some of them asked at length. “He must decide what we ought to do.”