At the factory, Frisco Flip had managed somehow to fashion a crate with a false bottom. He brought it to my house, packed small weapons and ammunition into the bottom part, and filled the top part with books. Our problem was to get the shipment to Bali.

Some days later I learned that the Japanese theatrical troupe and the band of geisha girls had been ordered to go to Bali to entertain navy personnel. They would travel by special train to Banjuwangi, and then by a Japanese patrol boat across the Bali–Java Strait.

Calling at the hotel to say good-bye to my little friends from Tokyo, I noticed that their stage props had been nicely crated, ready for transportation. Suddenly it dawned on me; here was the way to get our shipment of firearms to Bali. I got in touch with Frisco Flip immediately, and we worked out the details. I would ask the head of the theatrical troupe if I could go along with them to Bali. If they agreed, Frisco Flip would put our crate among the stage props. Since he was a Japanese, it should not be difficult to deceive the Indonesian guard.

All went well. The head of the troupe was delighted that I would accompany them. ‘We need someone to speak Balinese, to interpret for us,’ he said. ‘It would be pleasant, too, to have you as a guide.’

Frisco Flip delivered the crate to the prop manager, and I saw it stowed with the rest of the baggage. Then Flip and I had dinner in seclusion together, laughing at our private joke that the Japanese would be transporting the firearms that might be used against them.

The long train ride to Banjuwangi was another of the ironies of my life in the early part of the war. Here was I, a white woman in Indonesian dress, sharing in the song and revelry of show girls from Tokyo whiling time away. The geisha girls were hilarious, and sang the whole distance. I sang too, partly to banish worries over what might lie ahead for me. I am thankful now that I did not know what the future held in store.

The Japanese cutter took us across the strait and in to Gilimanuk just after dark. All the way I was worried about how I would retrieve my crate from the show props. I might better have eased my mind. It turned out to be almost too easy. My friends found my crate and loaded it on a dokkar. ‘How heavy it is,’ one commented. My heart skipped a beat. I replied with what I hoped was nonchalance, ‘My books, I am taking them to the home of a Swiss artist, a friend living a few kilometres outside of the town.’