Chapter 16 - The Harvest of Hands

When we return to Songololo the sky is already darkening, but before dinner the major insists on a visit to the rubber depot. It stands at the edge of the village, five hundred yards south of the station. This is where the main road from Léopoldville to Matadi passes. In truth, it is hardly a road at all. It's more a broad path of red earth, just about passable by cart. From both directions men approach, carrying enormous sacks on their backs or balanced on their heads. Yet I no longer see any of the men coated in latex as I did this morning.

“The collection of liquid latex is only done in the morning,” Captain Roger explains. “Before dawn the tappers enter the forest to cut the trees, because at that hour the internal pressure of the tree is greatest. The incision must be made with great precision, for if it reaches the cambial layer of the bark, it may damage the tree.”

We step inside the depot. It is a large, simple shed raised on stilts, filled almost to the ceiling with wooden containers.

“The latex flows along the cut into one of these cups,” the captain continues, showing us a wooden vessel, “or sometimes we use half a coconut shell. It is important that the tapper returns to each tree before the latex solidifies in the cup. They smear the liquid onto their bodies, where it coagulates. This produces the finest quality rubber. Once they arrive here, the latex is stripped off and gathered into the containers.”

“But can’t the process continue throughout the day?” Louis asks eagerly. “That way we’d double production at once!”

“Unfortunately not,” the captain replies. “The cut closes by self-healing after about four hours. To make another cut, we must wait until the following day.”

The men I saw arriving with heavy sacks now empty their contents into two troughs at the centre of the shed, where eight women are at work.

“What are they doing?” I ask.

“In the afternoon,” the captain explains, “the men return to the forest to collect the latex that has already coagulated in the cups, or the lumps that have fallen to the ground. They throw it into these troughs, where it is washed and then packed as second-grade latex.”

I watch them. So far as I can judge, the labourers are doing their utmost. It is brutal work, the kind none of us could endure for even half a day. I lower my head, convinced that asking them to double production is utter madness.

“Ah… here’s the man we wanted to see!” Commander Rom exclaims suddenly, as an enormous man strides into the shed. He is a Belgian sergeant in a white uniform that has clearly seen better days. A long red beard rests on his immense chest, beneath which his belly protrudes even further.

“My Major! Commander! Captain! I am overjoyed to see you again!” he growls in his deep voice while giving a military salute. He extends it to Louis, Sub-Lieutenant Bourgeois, and me as well, though only out of courtesy to our superior rank, certainly not out of respect for us as men. Indeed, just like the commander, he seems to harbour a deep disdain for novices. He does not even wait until we lower our hands to finish the salute, nor does he meet our eyes.

“Sergeant Fiévez, the honour is ours!” Major Thys greets him warmly. Without doubt, the sergeant is one of us.

“You must forgive me, Major, for not being present at your arrival yesterday,” Fiévez says, “but there was a disturbance in Kimpese, and I had to go at once to restore order.”

“What kind of disturbance?” the major asks. “Tell me what happened.”

“Ah, the usual story. The local tribe rebelled, and we had to intervene urgently.”

“You did well, Sergeant. And now?”

“Heheheee… problem eradicated at the root!” the sergeant laughs. “The hands are on their way!”

The hands are on their way?... No... this cannot be true!

Yet indeed, the sergeant leads us outside again, where several long wagons arrive bearing Force Publique soldiers. They unload, bringing down two baskets filled with severed right hands.

“There!” says the sergeant, lifting one from the first basket. “Three hundred and thirty-five! I counted them myself!”

“They can still serve as ashtrays! Ahahah!” Commander Rom laughs, and the others with him.

“Or as decoration?” Captain Roger jests. “They’d look fine against the wall, wouldn’t they?”

He takes two hands to demonstrate to the others how splendid they would look, broken hands pressed against the wall.

“A pity you didn’t bring me a few heads as well,” the commander continues. “I should like to decorate my bed!”

Everyone bursts out laughing. I feel utterly isolated and abandoned by Louis, whom I have always considered my closest friend. All the years at the academy together, all the adventures we shared… I no longer recognise him. What would his mother, a most gentle woman, say if she saw him now, caught up in this frenzy among these so-called officers? If she saw her son grasp a severed hand and hurl it into the jungle in a contest with the captain…

“Ha! I’ve won!” Louis laughs.

They all laugh. Even Sub-Lieutenant Bourgeois, with his baby-face, laughs until his lungs are empty. Toady!

“But look there!” Captain Roger suddenly cries, pointing to the crown of a tall tree.

I had already heard the shrill chirps from above, but in the circumstances I had paid no attention. Now I look up where the captain is pointing, and I see them too. At first glance, against the deep blue of the dusk, I think the tree bears long, drooping leaves. But they are not leaves… they are pteropods, giant bats!

“Don’t worry, Louis, they eat only fruit!” Captain Roger reassures us when he notices our frightened faces.

“Still, they’re disgusting beasts!” Louis shouts. He takes a hand from one of the baskets and flings it towards the tree, missing by several yards.

“You’re right,” the captain agrees, following his example. Missed again.

Then they all begin hurling severed hands at the tree where the bats roost. Such entertainment!

“The first to bring one down gets a beer!” Commander Rom urges them on.

Most attempts fall short, but a few strike home. The sergeant in particular has a fearsome throw. Some bats shriek or flap away, their vast wings beating slowly. Most, however, remain undisturbed, intent on their own affairs. Soon the men grow tired.

“Let’s return!” the major declares. “I’m ravenous!”

“Good idea,” the others reply. They can hardly wait to fall upon the roast. As for me, I think I shall take only a little salad tonight.

 

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