Children of the River

by Linda Crew

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “I don't mind telling, if you sure you want to hear.”

  “I do. Go on. How did you get out of Cambodia?”

  She took a deep breath. “Well, my uncle is like a clerk for the U.S. government, and if the Communist get him that not gonna be good .” She drew a finger across her throat. “So when we hear they coming we run down and get on the ship. Everybody say, Oh, we just stay away a couple day, let everything settle down.’ But pretty soon some people come by in a little boat and say already they are killing. So we leave.”

  “And headed for America,” Jonathan said thoughtfully.

  “Oh, we not heading for anyplace. We just getting away from the killing. First we go Thailand, then Malaysia, Indonesia We don't know where we gonna end up. We just floating around like that for six, seven week. Finally the American let us come to a camp in the Philippine. We stay there awhile, then they bring us to California Wtua.

  “I was asking my folks about this and they seemed to think everybody who left Vietnam and Cambodia in ‘75 was evacuated by our government. All nice and orderly, like it was planned ahead of time.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Nobody ever talk about leave Cambodia, not to me. My aunt and uncle never talk about ‘Let's pack’ or ‘Better get ready.’ Just pick up and go that day.” She sighed. “I don't want to go. I want to go back to Phnom Penh because I'm so scared for my family, but my uncle say, ‘Niece, no time to cry! Too late! Come on:

  She paused. “Why you look at me that way?”

  He shook his head. “God, I can't imagine having to leave my home like that, then try to go on with my life in some other country without knowing what had happened to my family.”

  “But as long as I don't hear they die, I still have hope.” She made her voice light. “I know a Korean girl—her mother just find her sister again, almost thirty year since the war in Korea. Me, I'm only hoping four year so far!”

  But Jonathan just stared at the ground.

  Sundara bit her lip. Perhaps they should have stuck to the subject of grass skirts after all.

  CHAPTER 6

  Of all the guests seated on their living room floor Sunday evening, Sundara was happiest to see her friend Moni.

  “How lucky I feel/’ the round-faced older girl was saying now, “to sit down to your good food, Soka.” Every time Moni carne over she seemed a little plumper. “I don't care how fat I get,” she had often told Sundara. After eating insects, rats, and scorpions to stay alive, a few extra pounds seemed like a smart idea.

  Soka urged another plateful on her. “It helps, being able to glean for the garlic. When it's free, I don't have to be stingy with it. As for the rice, I just have to do the best I can with the pitiful stuff they sell here.”

  Grandmother sighed. “How I miss the rice we had at home, the way it always smelled so fresh. The kind we get here has all the goodness milled right out of it.”

  “I'm just thankful they have rice at all in America,” Moni said. “I'm such a lobster brain, I had the notion they ate only bread!”

  Sundara joined in the soft laughter. She liked the way Moni was never afraid to tell a joke on herself. After everything she'd been through, it was surprising she could laugh at all.

  Back in Cambodia, Moni's young husband had been a soldier. Left alone while he fought the Communists, she'd taken refuge in Phnom Penh to await the birth of her baby —one among thousands, camping on the sidewalks. When the Khmer Rouge took the city, she, like many others, hoped for the best. Maybe the Communists would not be so bad. At least the fighting and killing would stop. And soon she could be with her husband again. For a brief hour or so as the truckloads of soldiers rumbled through the streets, people actually cheered.

  But the mood of celebration did not last. Soon the soldiers were ordering everyone to leave the city. The Americans, they said, were coming in their B-52S to bomb Phnom Penh. Easy to believe. Hadn't the American search for lurking North Vietnamese already cratered much of the Cambodian countryside?

  As the march from Phnom Penh began, Moni's time came, as the Khmer women say, to swim the Great River. On a sidewalk, with people trudging past, she gave birth. Soka and Sundara had wept to hear this, but Moni assured them she was not the only one. “And much worse things were happening. After my baby was born, a little boy begged me for help. He must have been one of those thrown out of the hospital because his foot was gone. But I couldn't carry him. I was so weak myself and with my own new baby Oiee, his little spirit comes to me still.”

  Naturally, Soka and Sundara assumed her baby had died; many Khmer babies failed to survive under much better conditions. Soka herself had lost two between Ravy and Pon. But Moni said no, she lived. “She was a strong little peasant, like me.”

  Not knowing which direction to walk, the city dwellers had been herded around the countryside by the dead-eyed, black-garbed soldiers. But Moni plodded steadily north toward her parents’ rice-farming village, baby tied in her krama. She ate whatever she could find, even tree bark, when she came across some that was free of the Americans’ leaf-killing poison spray. At her parents’ she recovered, but soon learned her husband would have been one of the first executed when the Khmer Rouge began their purge. And the new Kampuchea had no place for the widows of anti-Communist soldiers. She, too, was marked for death.

  Leaving the baby with her parents, she fled on foot, her breasts aching with the milk her baby would never suck. Through the jungle she made her way, braving wild panthers and Khmer Rouge soldiers, picking around the mines and the scattered bones of those who'd chosen the wrong place to step. She'd even managed to sneak past the thieves at the Thai border.

  Her story haunted Sundara. Such courage. Not only had Moni given birth to the child, but she kept it alive. How had Moni succeeded in this, where Sundara had failed? But Sundara's guilt about Soka's baby was something she could never discuss. Not even with Moni.

  Now she rose and stepped carefully through the seated crowd. Since the small dining area could not hold all the guests, Naro, Soka, and Sundara had pushed back their few pieces of furniture and spread mats over the wall-to-wall carpeting in the living room. It was often like this, because their friends liked to put on the sampots and sarongs they did not feel comfortable wearing elsewhere and come eat with Naro and Soka in their new, American-style house. People wanted their advice, for they had been in the United States the longest. Sometimes Soka complained privately about the inconvenience, but what could they do? Friends must be made welcome, even the unexpected ones.

  Sundara returned from the kitchen with Soka's silver-colored palm leaf plate on which she'd arranged the karup kanow, a dessert of candied jackfruit. The children were up now and running around, chasing each other with gleeful shrieks, pausing only to snatch one of the golden morsels. The parents frowned, but not too sternly. “Kompucb!” they called after their little ones jokingly. “Such bad manners!”

  But Soka assured them she didn't mind the noise. “It makes me happy in my heart to hear them laugh like that after all that's happened.”

  “You're lucky,” one sad-eyed woman said to Soka. “Your children didn't see the terrible things mine did.”

  Please don't start, Sundara thought to herself, passing the plate. Perhaps it was unkind, but she dreaded the company of this woman. Except for her daughter and herself, Pol Pot's men had killed her entire family. Sundara felt truly sorry for her, but if she started to tell her story one more time, every detail about the horrifying way they'd died

  “Your little girl will forget the bad things,” Soka said, also wanting to steer the woman away from repeating her tale. “Look at her now.” The child in question raced by, panting with laughter, chasing Poh. She seemed perfectly normal except for one thing: her almost hysterical aversion to wearing any item of red clothing. A reminder of blood.

  “I worried about my little Pon for a long time,” Soka went on. “I'll never forget when I first had to take him to the day-care center. Both of us crying! I couldn't believe my sponsor expected me to l
eave him with people who weren't even family. What kind of cruel place is this America? I thought. But I got used to it, and as you can see, he is fine.”

  Now, under Ravy's direction, the children were making a tent, using the many hand-crocheted afghans given them by the church ladies. A small, grinning face poked out of the colorful tent flap, then disappeared inside.

  Sundara smiled, then sighed. Sometimes she wished she were a few years younger. The children did seem happier. Even the small ones from the other families who had survived the worst of it seemed to do well, starting American school so early. Pon, of course, remembered nothing, and if Ravy did, he didn't dwell on it. His mind was full of Star Wars, pocket calculators, and organizing another touch football game with his many friends. Oh, sometimes he spoke wistfully of the pet rooster he'd had to leave behind, but for Sundara she almost felt she'd left her whole se/f behind, that laughing girl who had run along the sparkling sand beaches at Ream, made a mischief in the dusty streets of Phnom Penh

  Only a few weeks before she'd left the country forever, her father had given her the loveliest blue parasol painted with pink roses—not a good gift, as it turned out, to cheer a girl weary of remaining at home. How she'd pleaded with him to take her walking along the quay. In her mind she saw herself twirling it, drawing the attention of the boys on their bicycles. Of course, in her father's presence, she could hardly return their smiles, but how pleasant to see them watching her. And maybe she and Papa could stop at one of the Parisian-style cafes? Or take a pedicab ride to the Chinese shopping district?

  “Innocent One, I cannot take you. It's too dangerous with the rockets. And believe me, the city is not as you remember it.”

  Hateful war. It ruined everything.

  And now, in spite of everything she'd gone through in the months that followed, everything that showed her just how sheltered she'd been and how little she'd understood of the war, this one thought still haunted her: Never would she stroll the Boulevard Monivong beneath the lavender jacarandas and blooming peacock trees, twirling a painted parasol. Not while her hair was still black, anyway, not while she was young and pretty. Shamefully foolish, this regret, but somehow she couldn't get rid of it.

  “Some of the older children surprise me with their American ways too,” the wife of Prom Kea was saying now. “Did you hear about Pok Simo, the son of Pok Sary? His American friends taught him to play poker and he won all their money from them!”

  Sundara frowned to herself. Pok Simo was just a year ahead of her in school. She didn't like him. Why did the others find his poker playing so admirable? Because he'd beaten the Americans? Even Soka smiled. It made little sense. Sundara could just imagine the trouble if Soka learned she'd been gambling—at any time other than the New Year, that is. Then it was permitted. But this was different. Pok Simo was making a career of it.

  “Yes, he's a smart boy. They say he is already planning to take military training in college.”

  Naro scoffed. “What's so smart about going into the military? If your country is defeated, what are you going to do for a job?”

  Now the talk turned, as it always must, to the problems of life in America. Why did they have to pay those social security taxes? Wasn't that what families were for? But smuggling money back to the ones at home, that was a problem too. They always wanted more. They thought America was heaven because everyone had a car. They didn't understand that everyone had to have a car. And speaking of cars, wasn't it terrible the looks they got for driving shiny new ones? They'd saved and paid cash, hadn't they? And bought American, too, not Japanese! There was no way to win. If they went on welfare, Americans called them spongers. If they worked hard and succeeded, people got jealous.

  Among the guests were a man and wife newly arrived in America, and they listened, wide-eyed, as the others went on and on, saying the same things Sundara had heard so many times before. How strange all this must sound to them, she thought. Only a few weeks ago they'd been languishing in a squalid refugee camp, probably imagining America as the answer to every prayer.

  Then again, Sundara thought, at least they'd been wanting to come here. Waiting, they'd had time to get used to the idea.

  For her family, it had all happened with such bewildering speed. She had not known she was leaving her home, perhaps forever, that frantic April night when they boarded the ship. Not until two months later had it dawned on her this was not some temporary sojourn, a terrible but brief interlude until the trouble at home blew over. When it hit her, she was sitting in the tent of a hastily assembled orientation class at Camp Pendleton, California. Heaven protect me, she'd thought, her eyes glazing with sudden, stunned dismay. The teacher was explaining how to live in America—as if that's what they'd be doing for a long, long time. They were not going home, not soon. Maybe never. Good-ěye Kampuchea, hello America. They'd made one conscious decision—to flee for their lives —and here they were. Just yesterday, it seemed, she'd been swinging on a breezy porch in a Cambodian fishing village, now she was sweltering in an armed camp guarded by rifle-toting American soldiers.

  Still, Sundara thought now, looking at the newly arrived husband and wife, this family's long, idle months in the Thai camp were nothing to envy, and even with the support of fellow Khmers it would be harder for them in many ways, coming now. They could not have escaped with their savings in a few rubies, sapphires, or leaves of gold as Naro and some of the other first ones had, and no doubt they were already worn down with having suffered so many difficulties. Sundara glanced at the dazed-looking young mother. She felt sympathetic, but hoped the woman would not be the kind to tell every terrible detail over and over.

  Her heart sank when she saw Naro going to the tape deck. Not that tape of Khmer music. Not that song about the woman in the refugee camp. Even the tiring complaints about American life were better than dwelling on this sadness.

  When I read the words you wrote

  I thought my dying hour had come

  You say you've found a new life, a new wife

  In a far-off foreign land.

  Over the mountains I've led our children

  With one fierce hope of finding you

  Now they're weeping at my knees, begging please

  Won't I tell them where you've gone?

  Over the sea I send my spirit

  To hurt your heart with one sad plea

  Hear them cry for their father, though you love

  another And have long forgotten me.

  Sundara's throat closed. The woman who'd lost her family broke down and sobbed. Soka moved to comfort her.

  Naro shook his head sadly. “I still cannot understand how it's come to this: People fleeing not only from the Vietnamese, but also from fellow Khmers. Our own people! The Vietnamese are not slaughtering each other.”

  Oh, stop, Sundara thought.

  “It seems impossible,” the new man offered quietly, “but many are saying the Vietnamese will be an improvement over the Khmer Rouge.”

  “What a choice! Like running from the tiger on the land and being eaten by the alligator in the water. The Vietnamese would be happy to see every Khmer starve so they could occupy our country permanently.”

  “Ah! If only Prince Sihanouk would come back.”

  They sighed with longing. Once, as a small child, Sundara had been part of the joyful throng that greeted Sihanouk on a wide, tree-lined boulevard in Phnom Penh. Her memories were not of the beloved ruler, however, but of the flowers everyone tossed at his slowly passing car, the necklace of fragrant jasmine she'd been given to wear in celebration. These older ones remembered Sihanouk himself, though. Somehow they thought if he could return from exile in China and rule Kampuchea once again, they might go home.

  Why listen to this? Sundara thought, and she rose to collect the bowls. They might go on with this sighing and pining all night.

  But perhaps the others had had enough too. The women began gathering in one corner, Soka taking the new family's baby in her arms. Jennifer was her name. “She born here” her fa
ther liked to say in English. “She American!”

  “Do you want to give this little one to me to keep?” Soka joked. “Of course, everyone prefers sons, but a daughter is good too.”

  Soka would never have a daughter now. Everyone had told them it cost thousands of dollars to have a baby in the United States; where were they going to get money like that? Soka had felt she had no choice; shortly after arriving, she had the operation for no more babies.

  Sundara watched her aunt with a kind of pained fascination, wondering if she was remembering the baby daughter that had died.

  Soka looked up from Jennifer now. Her black eyes fell on Sundara and the smile faded. “You can do the dishes, Niece.”

  “Yes, Younger Aunt.” Sundara slipped into the kitchen, suddenly trembling. Whenever Soka looked at her that way, she imagined her aunt saying to herself, There is the girl who was sent to care for my little child and let ber die instead

  Moni followed with plates balanced on her forearms. “Let me help.” Moni always had to be busy, as if to justify her presence. Easy to understand. How else could a girl feel without a real place of her own in a family? And Moni had no family at all, not here. Until recently she'd had to live with her American sponsors. They'd finally been able to help her get her own tiny apartment, but Sundara knew she was lonely.

  “The Millers didn't have one of these dishwashing machines,” Moni said, “so I still don't understand how to work them.”

  “It's easy. You scrape and I'll show you how to load it.”

  Things like this made Sundara feel older than her friend, even though Moni was twenty-two. Having come to America earlier, Sundara understood many things about life here that Moni did not. But in other ways, Moni was the wiser; she knew something of men.

  Deftly, Sundara fit the plates in the racks. “Why must they always play those songs?”

  Moni shook her head. “That one about the woman and her children could make a stone statue weep.”