The Cost of Sugar(31)

Rutger was dumb with horror. He looked at the black hand between the rollers and at the man who lay there bleeding on the ground.

“Get up, man, get up,”46 the basya called, kicking at the motionless body.

“Mr Vredelings,” Rutger shouted.

Vredelings came in, and when he saw what had happened, said calmly, “What an idiot. Stop the cogwheel.”

A slave had already run outside to stop the wheel. Mr Vredelings said to the basya, “Remove the hand, or the sugar will be spoilt,”47 and to his errand boy he said, “Call the medicine man.”48 The medicine man came and the still unconscious body was dragged outside. Water was thrown on his face and he was given some dram to drink. Then he was taken by another man to the slave huts to be further attended to there by the medicine man.

All this time Rutger had said nothing. He could only look at the hand on the crusher, at the man on the ground and at all that blood. Only one thought went through his mind: all this for sugar, and a pound of sugar cost five cents! Five cents for a pound of sugar, and how many hands, arms, legs and human lives were sacrificed for this! He looked towards Mr Vredelings, for whom such a thing was apparently completely normal, for as soon as the victim had been removed from the building he called another slave to the crusher, saying roughly, “And take more care, you.”49

And everything carried on as if nothing had happened.

During lunch the incident came up in conversation, and Jeremiah’s only comment was, “Those ruffians should simply pay more attention.”

When they were leaving the table, Rutger said to his host, “You know, Mr Jeremiah, I would very much like to take you up on your offer of that slave-girl for this evening.”

Mr Jeremiah looked pleasantly surprised. “Ah, that is good. Do you perhaps have a preference?” “Well, not really. I’ll be pleased to leave the choice completely to the experienced judgement of your overseer,” responded Rutger, with a nod towards Mr Vredelings. He pushed his chair back and stood up, saying, “With your permission I’ll take my nap now.”

That evening there were no visitors from the neighbouring plantation. The three men sat talking, and the conversation concerned mainly the economic situation in the colony. Sugar was a much sought-after commodity on the European market, coffee and cocoa, too. Things were looking good for all the plantation owners. The banks in the Netherlands were generous with credit. If only that black rabble would work a bit harder. They were quite capable of this. They were strong, and after all, God had created the negro race solely for the purpose of working as slaves for the whites. When Rutger asked the men how they knew this so surely, Jeremiah replied, “Come, come, young man: it is written at length in the Torah.”

“Well,” retorted Rutger, “I have read the Old Testament from beginning to end, and I have never come across that passage. But perhaps your Torah and my Old Testament are not one and the same.”

Rutger went to his room early. After he had undressed and Alex had taken his boots with him, he lay on the large bed with his hands folded under his head. He watched a kamrawintje, a small salamander, which was creeping along the ceiling looking for mosquitoes. Suddenly there came a timid knock at the door, and upon his “Yes” a girl was pushed inside. Rutger sat up. He was shocked. He had expected a girl, a young woman, but what was standing by the door was a child, a thin, small girl, thirteen or at the most fourteen years old. She hung her head and was terrified. You could see this from her trembling fingers, creasing the lower edge of her loincloth. So, the overseer had clearly thought to do him a favour by sending him an untouched little virgin. The bastard! And then suddenly again the image of the crushed hand in the rollers. Now this scared child, and this all for the sugar.

“What’s your name, girl?”50 asked Rutger now.

Very softly came, “Afanaisa, masra.”

“Afanaisa,” said Rutger softly, and again, “Afanaisa.” He looked at the child, shook his head slowly, and then stretched out his hand and told her, “You don’t need to be afraid. I’m not going to do anything. Come here.”51 The child shuffled a few steps nearer, but still stayed out of reach. Now he said, “Who has sent you here?”52

“The basya, masra,” came the whispered answer.

So, the overseer had left it to the basya to take care of this little job. Bastards, those bastards, thought Rutger again.

“Do you know what you have to do here?”53 Rutger asked.

“I don’t know, masra,”54 was the answer, but Rutger suspected that she knew very well what it was all about.