by Arnold Zable
Within months of my visit, the city that glittered on the shores was plunged into chaos, the river laid to siege, cutting off Phnom Penh’s lifeline. To navigate its waters beyond the city’s limits was fatal. Rebels roamed the banks and lay in ambush within striking distance.
On April 17 1975, after years of intermittent siege, the city fell to the Khmer Rouge. In an act of ideologically fuelled brutality the two and a half million residents were driven into the countryside. Phnom Penh was emptied.
The city became a ghostly no-man’s-land, the country a killing field. More than one and a half million Cambodians died, and many thousands fled for their lives, stealing across stretches of rice paddy and forest littered with mines and booby traps, to stagnate for years on end in borderland camps and makeshift villages.
And many times, I have wondered what happened to that fisherman, to his livelihood, his village, his nightly forays upon the river. To his song.
Bella Ciao
Monsieur and Madame owned a café and motel on the Rue du Lac between Lausanne and Geneva. Madame managed the motel, and Monsieur the apple orchards and vineyards on the slopes above Lake Geneva. Each year they hired foreign workers to bring in the harvest, and each year a group of twenty women travelled there from their hometown in Italy.
The women worked seven days a week, sunrise to dusk, for three months, and in the autumn of 1973 I worked alongside them. They smelled of earth and spices, and took good care of their appearance. They rose in the pre-dawn dark, applied powder and lipstick, and ate a hasty breakfast before hoisting themselves into the tray of the truck that ferried them from the highway over unpaved pathways to the orchards.
The eldest was Asunta, a matriarch of sixty-eight. Her hair was a frizzy mass of grey, her skin tough and darkened. Her ample body was swathed in layers of skirts and jumpers. She walked with a slow rolling gait, weighed down by her age. Yet a zest for life radiated from her eyes. ‘Our men are useless,’ she laughed. ‘We have to leave them behind to go and make a living.’
‘We are glad to be rid of them for a while,’ said Martina, at forty-eight the youngest. ‘We do not have to endure them pestering us for our bodies, and do not have to push them off with our excuses. Besides, what work is there back home except for the few lira we make from our exhausted farmlands?’ A Marlene Dietrich lookalike, her hair was dyed blonde, her fingernails freshly painted, her pale blue-green eyes accentuated by mascara. She moved with elegance, protective of the vestiges of her youth, her enduring beauty.
When the day was done the women were driven back to the workers’ quarters where they remained on call to clean the round-the-clock café, since Madame was obsessed with cleanliness and determined that all would be in perfect order, scoured and dusted, swabbed and polished. Alas the effect was a sickly smell of antiseptic in the café and the motel corridors.
In the evening the women fussed over me in their quarters as if I were a lost son returned after years of absence. The kitchen common room was criss-crossed by cords pegged with massive bloomers, sweaters and cardigans, bras, petticoats, skirts and stockings. We ate and drank and warmed ourselves by the stove, and talked in the pidgin German the women had acquired during years of war and occupation.
Our conversations continued out in the orchards when Thomas, the head foreman, was away on an errand. As soon as the groan of the truck faded we descended the ladders and gathered fallen twigs and branches. We lit a fire and, as on the previous evening, passed round a flask of grappa, almond biscuits and slices of cheese and salami that the women carried in hidden recesses of their clothing.
Issen the Kosovo Albanian—cigarette stuck at the corner of his lips—resumed his boasts about his semen, which he claimed had the power to penetrate doors and shatter windows. It would take flight, he asserted, over mountain slopes and rivers towards distant countries, bypassing borders. With each telling his prowess expanded, and soon his semen was soaring at the speed of light, hurtling over continents and oceans.
Not to be denied, Idir the boyish Moroccan chimed in with virginal boasts of his conquests. The number grew with each boast until he was lord and master of an entire harem. Gil, the ageing Spaniard, face stained with red blotches, grasped the flask, gulped down more than his fill and ran excitedly in circles at the sound of an aeroplane approaching. He raised his face and shot up his arm in a fascist salute exclaiming, ‘Luftwaffe! Luftwaffe!’ Incensed, Miro the Yugoslav hummed German beer hall ditties, acquired during work stints in Hamburg, interspersed with snatches of the Internationale.
So it went: the grappa and cheese, boasts and gossip, Gil leering over Martina who kept him at bay with contemptuous glances, the laughter building towards hysteria, until all was abruptly ended by the distant groan of the truck returning. The men pissed on the fire and stamped out the embers. We scurried up the ladders and resumed picking well before the truck arrived in the clearing.
Paolo was a guest worker from Italy. A heavyset man, he wore a navy blue cap and woollen jacket and his overalls tucked into knee-high gumboots. His movements were slow and deliberate, his tired gaze leavened by a fixed smile, but rarely a grimace. He was too shy and generous for that.
He worked three jobs, and trudged from one to the other in a state of weariness: from his ten-hour days as a farmhand in Monsieur’s groves and vineyards to weekend evening stints as a taxi driver, and nightly shifts in a bottle-making factory supervising workers on the assembly lines.
I accompanied him one night to his workplace, where he proudly took me on a tour of the factory. Behold my domain, his eyes were saying, behold my charges. Rows of women dressed in overalls sat at conveyor belts, their eyes fixed on the passing bottles, mesmerised. When a woman detected a flaw she picked out the offending bottle and hurled it over her shoulder, where it crashed into bins to be crushed and recycled.
Nothing wasted or discarded. Night after night the drone of the belt, the robotic movements, the hypnotic allure of the passing bottles. The shift workers moved about a nocturnal zone separated from the outside world, from normal living.
I left Paolo and set out on the Rue du Lac for the drive back to the workers’ quarters. On the upper slopes, the orchards we tended by day were lost to the darkness. I wound down the window and sucked in the night air. And six hours later the alarm was ringing, drawing me out of bed into the dawn where Paolo was back on board the truck as if no time had passed since I last saw him.
Sitting beside him, cigarette glued to his mouth, Issen stared vacantly into the distance. Gil sprawled between us, blinking away his hangover. Idir and Miro dozed side by side, as if they had been carted out from their beds and deposited where they lay, still sleeping. The women were arranging themselves on makeshift cushions made up of blankets and hessian sacking, preparing themselves for the journey. And Thomas, the benevolent blue-eyed foreman, in his customary blue overalls, was at the wheel humming, The sky is blue, the sun shines too, deep in the heart of Texas, singing to impress me, the English speaker, with one line of the lyrics of one song, which he sang over and over.
His face was set in a cheerful grin as the truck ascended. The mountain air recharged us, and through the mists emerged a battalion of Swiss soldiers on military exercises. They crept in a half crouch through vineyards, followed by a column of tanks and armoured vehicles, on the alert for phantom enemies. ‘There goes the might of the Swiss army,’ said Miro, ‘God help us.’ ‘Luftwaffe. Luftwaffe,’ mumbled Gil, his arm outstretched, shaking with delirium tremens.
Within the hour we were at work, the older women on the ground, reaching up to pick the apples, the younger workers scaling the ladders, leaning into the foliage. Paolo followed in our wake with a saw and secateurs. He placed a ladder against the trees that had been picked, steadying it to make sure of his safety before climbing it with measured steps and settling on an upper rung, where he set about pruning the branches with the resigned air of a draught horse.
So it continued, day after day, dawn to dusk, week after we
ek. Autumn was giving way to winter. The first snows were falling, the picking season was coming to an end, and Thomas was away on an errand. We lit a fire, passed round the grappa, and stamped our feet to keep warm while the fire was building. And, as if responding to an innate signal, the voices of the women began rising—a makeshift choir finding its way to the melody and, finally, the lyrics:
One morning when I awakened
O bella, ciao! Bella, ciao! Bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!
One morning when I awakened
I found invaders all around
Oh partisan, come take me with you
O bella, ciao! Bella, ciao! Bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!
Oh partisan, come take me with you
Because I feel ready to die
If I die fighting as a partisan
O bella, ciao! Bella, ciao! Bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!
If I die fighting as a partisan
You must come and bury me.
To this day I remember the expressions on the women’s faces: the knowing eye, the acute sharpness, tempered by a glint of mischief, a touch of radiance. The women had been steeled during the war in mountain hideouts, and on clandestine missions as partisans in the anti-fascist resistance. They were at ease with the physical world, their feet firmly planted on the earth, an anchor to their yearning. They moved through their days step by step like slow whirling dervishes, biding their time, conserving energy, and by nightfall they were on the truck for the journey back to the workers’ quarters.
A blessed weariness descended. The women huddled together, murmuring in conversation. Gil and Idir were dozing, Miro and Issen lying back in silence, cigarette butts glowing, and Paolo was seated between them, holding his knees to his chest, staring blankly. The moon had broken clear, and seemed so close we were tempted to reach up and touch it. We lay back on the tray, our eyes diverted by a flock of birds in V-formation embarking on their annual migrations.
This is who they were, the men and women I worked with, migrating birds bound to seasonal cycles of farewells and arrivals, departures and return journeys. I envisaged them setting out from their homes on foot or wagons, by bus or train, barely glancing back, emotions kept in check, eyes firmly on the horizon, the faces of loved ones vanishing, their barren farmlands receding. Their movement punctuated by frontier crossings, customs inspections, dusty bus depots, drab waiting rooms and way-stops at cheap cafés. While at each border, the fear of rejection.
There was no romance in the guest workers’ lives, but the austerity of cheap lodgings and barracks, and the chronic ache of extended absences, relieved by wine, an idle boast, a hit of caffeine. The incessant movement to and from orchard and factory, building site and vineyard, mines and quarries, to and from the homes that they cleaned or lived in as domestics. And when the stint was done, back to their homelands laden with cash and presents, and a sense of worldliness from having journeyed to foreign places. Then, in time, back on the road and a renewal of the migratory cycle.
As we drove back to the workers’ quarters, not even the jolts could rouse the bodies sprawled beside me. While in the cabin, like a broken record, his voice barely audible above the din of the motor, Thomas was crooning, The sky is blue, the shine shines too, deep in the heart of Texas.
The sky was blue, the sun shone too, the harvest was all but over, but all was not well. Posters had appeared overnight. In Geneva and Lausanne, in towns and mountain hamlets, on walls and lampposts and makeshift billboards. Invisible forces were on the move, hit-and-run brigades propagating their opposing messages.
A public argument had broken out in Switzerland in the winter of 1973. A global oil crisis was threatening recession, adding weight to a perennial suspicion. A referendum was imminent, the question formulated: Yes or no? Should guest workers be allowed in the country? ‘They are creeping in by the back door, diluting our culture, taking our jobs when we need them. They are stealing in while we sleep, crossing our borders, engaging in shady doings, amassing secret fortunes,’ argued the naysayers.
‘They grow our economies, relieve labour shortages, provide a market for our products, domestics for our families, nannies for our children, labour for our sewers and abattoirs,’ countered the supporters, reinforcing their case with photos of cleaners, factory hands, garbage collectors and farm workers, holding crowbars and shovels, brooms and hammers. ‘Would you want to do such jobs?’ read the captions.
Monsieur’s workers barely glanced at the posters. They had seen it all before, and had heard the predictable arguments. Let them fight it out, they indicated with their grimaces. Whichever way it goes, we have no say in it. All we can do is take our chances.
Only Issen responded. He stood up and lurched on the back of the moving truck like a drunken seaman. He steadied himself against the back of the cabin, cigarette between his lips as if it were a natural extension of his body. And with one hand held against the cabin, he moved the other to and fro, in front of his crotch.
‘My semen is so strong it can take out the posters in one hit,’ he boasted, thrusting his pelvis towards the posters of the naysayers, his eyes following the imagined trajectory to its target. And for once, his workmates cheered him, and dissolved into laughter as they mimicked his actions.
The final task of the season was to gather the fruit scattered over the snow. The fallen apples were to be used in making schnapps. The women bent down to gather the fruit into picking aprons. They emptied the apples into wooden boxes that Issen and I carried to the moving tractor driven by Paolo.
With each successive row the tractor moved faster. The women rose to their knees, emptied their picking aprons and turned back to the snow. Martina led the way. She possessed an agility that enabled her to bend over with seeming ease despite the bulk of her winter clothing, but old Asunta had great difficulty. She crawled on her hands and knees short of breath, determined not to fall too far behind her companions.
I pleaded with Paulo to slow down. He turned, shrugged his shoulders and continued to drive, oblivious to my bleating. Asunta struggled to her feet and pulled me aside with a hint of annoyance: ‘This will not help us,’ she said. ‘Paolo is no different. If he slows down he will lose his job and we will lose ours. He is only doing what he must. This is how it is.’
She lowered herself back onto her hands and knees and continued. Moments later, she began humming. One by one the women took up her lead, reinforcing her barely audible singing:
Bury me there, up in the mountains
O bella, ciao! Bella, ciao! Bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!
Bury me up there in the mountains
Shade my grave with a lovely flower
So all the people who pass that way
O bella, ciao! Bella, ciao! Bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!
So all the people who pass that way
Will say ‘Oh see that lovely flower!’
‘Ah that’s the flower of the partisan fighter’
O bella, ciao! Bella, ciao! Bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!
‘Ah that’s the flower of the partisan fighter
Who died for freedom’s sake!’
The pace of the tractor did not slow, but Paolo too was mouthing the words. He clung to the wheel with his eyes fixed on the track, a tenacious peasant with a stoic grimace. I watched the women working over the snow-flecked earth. Beyond the tree line, the mountain was lost in the mists and, far below, the lake, a grey sheet beneath a feeble sun, was barely glistening.
I looked back towards Asunta and, sensing my presence, she lifted her head and winked. Then she turned her face back to the earth and scrambled over the melting sludge, clawing apples into her picking apron. And with renewed vigour, continued singing.
The Music Box
The village lies near the border. I say lies, for here on the flatlands of eastern Poland time sleeps. In the autumn of 1986, address in hand, I walked from the station along the railway embankment. A teenage boy idled by the tracks scanning the horizon. He picked up a handful of stones and cast them
at the rails, one by one, delighting in the resonant ping when one hit its target.
Like a hare detecting a movement, he cocked his head and stared into the distance. For a time the approaching train seemed to move slowly, then it was upon us, playing havoc with the silence. Passengers’ faces flitted by, leaving a yearning for distant places.
I showed the boy the address and he led the way along a clay pathway. Coiled bales of hay were lined up in neat rows in recently cut paddocks. Birch and conifers fringed the farmlands. Peasants, bent over double, harvested potatoes and turnips. A farmer, rope tethered round his shoulders, worked a horse-drawn plough. The horse’s flanks were damp with sweat, its nostrils flaring. The onion-shaped domes of a church glinted in the distance.
The path broke off from the embankment and twenty minutes later we were in the village. The boy took me to the house and vanished.
The shutters were open and fastened against the weatherboard. Sunflowers stood in a vase on the windowsill. A cat lay outstretched on a table behind the window. It sat up and eyed my progress to the front door.
Though we had never met, Katrina welcomed me warmly. Stylishly dressed in a white blouse, a tight-waisted black skirt, high heels and sheer nylon stockings, she wore makeup and her nails were varnished. Beside her, like a faithful valet, stood her fifteen-year-old son, Stefan. His complexion was pale, his shoulders slightly stooped, and beneath his eyes the light-blue pallor of late nights of study.
I passed on regards to Katrina from a friend of hers I had met in Bialystok, and handed her the envelope I had offered to deliver. We spoke in a mixture of French, English and German. Though her fluency was impressive in all three, certainly far better than mine in French and German, she expressed frustration at her lack of command of the languages.
