“Chea? Chea?”
The head rises, eyes wet. I embrace her soaking back. She weeps, shuddering. I wail, letting out the pain of helplessness, the loneliness, and the frustration that have been building in me. There is so much suffering to bear that I can’t hide it.
“Athy, bang is sick and they dragged bang out of the hut. I’m very sick. I’m cold; I cannot work, p’yoon srey bang.…”
Oh, Chea…God have mercy. Looking up at the cloudy sky, I’m so overwhelmed by Chea’s suffering, and my own. I want to alleviate my sister’s suffering, but I’m so utterly helpless it hurts. Who are they to drag off my sister? How brutal! The question stirs up a burning anger that I haven’t felt for so long. I close my eyes, and I want so much to scream.
“Athy, Athy. Go, p’yoon srey. The chhlops are coming—” Chea mutters.
Glancing at Chea, I get up and trot away. After a few feet, she is out of sight, blocked by the moving line and the sheet of rain. The rains die down. The water in the flooded rice fields recedes. Chea has regained her health after two weeks of rest. Her fever is gone. Already she’s herself, resilient, friendly like she was back in Phnom Penh.
Our neighbor, a woman, comes to our hut. Chea’s face glows as if she is happy to see her. “Good morning. How are you, aunt?” Chea greets her cheerfully in English as if she has been yearning to speak it. I’m surprised, yet delighted to hear Chea talk in English.
The woman recoils, baffled. Chea’s lips widen into a grin, “Or, comment ça va, Madame? Trés bien? Oui?”
“You talk like that, I can’t understand you,” the woman mildly complains, her brow furrowing. “I’ve brought you some rice. Here.” She unties the knot on her scarf, producing a few pounds of processed rice.
“Merci beaucoup, Madame.” Chea gently bows, amused.
The woman looks sheepish, gazing at Chea.
Chea explains, translating what she’s said. Then she asks the woman how she is doing in Cambodian.
“Well or not, it’s so-so nowadays,” the woman speaks dismally. “Life is like hell.” She whispers. “These days you can’t trust anyone, Achea, not even your own children. My children, they’re now Angka’s kids. They’ve been turned against me. They don’t listen to me, but to Angka. You should be careful. Don’t speak those languages.”
I smile, observing Chea and the woman. I’m proud of Chea, elated by her sparkling greeting. Amused by the baffled look on the woman’s face when she first heard Chea speak English. She is a small woman, one of the “new people” who is friendly and seemingly timid.
The next morning the informant who wakes us suddenly appears in front of our hut. His piercing, sinister eyes look accusing. “Angka needs to look for books,” he declares, inviting himself into our hut. I’m baffled, disbelieving.
Chea waves at me and Map to get out of the hut as the informant ransacks our clothes and blankets. He hops onto the part of the open floor where we cook our food. I hear the sounds of pots and pans colliding. Then he begins digging. Chea looks at me and I at her. Map looks at us searchingly.
The informant leaves; his dirty footprints remain on the slabs of the floor. His wicked eyes glare at us as he carries away a package, our once-hidden past, Chea’s personal belongings wrapped in a damp turquoise plastic. In it are a leather briefcase and a handbag. They were Pa and Mak’s gifts to her for her academic success. The briefcase contains memories of her school years: a spiral math notebook; two Cambodian novels, Pka Srapone (Wilted Flower) and Snaeha Muy (One Love), written by Chea’s friend in college. Primly secured in their slots opposite the books are fancy pens and pencils, souvenirs from her friends. Their pictures, and pictures of her with them, are in a picture album. Beside each wallet-sized photo is a brief friendship note to Chea, decorated with roses, hibiscus, or ivy with blossoms. In the handbag are documents of our births and the titles to our houses in Phnom Penh and Takeo, hidden beneath Chea’s colorful traditional satin clothes. In the informant’s hands is the tangible evidence of our former lives. How did he suspect us of having books? Chea wonders, and I myself can’t understand his sudden appearance. Could it be that he was eavesdropping on us when Chea greeted our neighbor yesterday, hiding behind our hut or in the shrubs out front? With the family documents and Chea’s books in Angka’s hands, we have a lot to lose. Chea keeps her thoughts to herself. She’s quiet, preoccupied, as if saying anything at all would get us into deeper trouble. I brace for the repercussions.
At work the following day I worry about losing Chea. I imagine her being taken away to be reformed by the chhlops for possessing books, evidence of being educated. At the hut Map is alone, crying. I can see him clearly, sitting, waiting for me to return. His face distressed, heartbroken, just like it was when Mak was taken away from him to the Choup hospital.
Returning from work, I brace myself for the worst news. When I arrive at the hut, a bald, gaunt person is squatting in front of the hut with his back facing me.
Chea? No! Tears spill out of my eyes. Chea has shaved her head. She looks so unlike herself, my once-beautiful sister. Her scalp sallow, bony. Her neck thin, dark. From the back, she looks like an old, old person; I can’t tell whether she’s a woman or a man.
When Chea turns, her eyes meet mine. She looks resolved, gets up and walks over to me. Calmly she says, “Athy, if bang looks crazy and ugly enough, the Khmer Rouge might not harm bang.”
We go through our family pictures, which I’ve hidden in the roof. To erase Pa’s ties to the previous government, I cut out parts of his wallet-sized picture in which he is wearing military police uniforms. What remains is his head, from the neck up. If we should be interrogated, Pa never worked for the previous government, Chea says. His former job was in a medical field, and he liked to help people.
The next evening the air is cool. Since it’s still light out, Chea and I weed our front yard, where we’d grown corn the previous year. We have two tools, one a knife, the other a small rusty shovel. Suddenly a stern voice behind us shouts “Comrade!”
We turn. It’s Srouch, the leader of the informants. Chea rises, facing him.
“Angka found books in your hut. What level of education did you have?” he demands.
Chea walks toward him, clutching the knife in her hand. Casually Chea says, “I found those books on a road during the evacuation from Phnom Penh. I didn’t get to study much because of the fighting. I know how to read a little. Why? Does comrade want those books? You may have them. I just keep them for wiping myself after I poop.” Chea drops the knife on the ground as if her hand has lost its grip. As she slowly moves toward Srouch, she scratches her body—her arms, chest, neck, her bald head—causing Srouch to walk backward.
“That’s enough,” he says, his brow furrowed. “I only wanted to know if comrade had a lot of education or held any position before.”
As soon as the last word leaves his mouth, he flees, disappearing as fast as he appeared. Chea grins at me, and I grin back.
A few weeks later, in the evening, while I weed in the front yard, Chea waters the vegetables in the back of the hut. I can hear voices of girls chatting, laughing, approaching a path behind our hut. They sound carefree. Strange, I think. Normally the “new people” would not dare to display this much happiness. When their faces appear out of the woods, I can see why they sound untroubled—they are the “old people.” They have it better than us, so they have good reason to be happy. When they near our hut, Chea looks at them, her hands holding the water bucket. “Did comrades just come from working in the woods?” Chea asks nicely. It’s her way of greeting some people.
The girls stop talking. One of them, perhaps thirteen years old, studies Chea. Her eyes narrow with contempt, then she shouts, “Crazy old man!” She thrusts a knife at Chea again and again. The others join in. They all chant, “Crazy old man. Crazy, crazy.” Together they flail their knives at Chea. They jeer repeatedly. I glare at them until they disappear behind the trees.
Chea stands rooted to the ground, her f
ace filled with humiliation. She looks so hurt. Slowly she puts the bucket down on the ground. As she walks past me, she curses them, “Insolent kids!”
The following night Chea lies beside me; it’s only us since Map is with Ry at Peth Preahneth Preah. Close to me she huddles, then she whispers in my ear. “Bang wrote a poem last night in bang’s mind. Listen.”
*I pity myself. Though a virgin, I am called an old man.
In the previous society, how furious would I’ve been. But now it’s normal for a woman.
I pity myself as a woman. Twenty-three years old,† yet they think I’m sixty.
My teeth still intact, my hair shiny black, they think I’m sixty, for I’ve shaved my head.
I pity myself so much, living without parents.
There’s no hope of caring for them, of living near my beloved mother and father.
Chea becomes ill with a fever. Her body is hot, refusing to cool down even with the help of wet cloths placed on her forehead and stomach. Ra returns from a labor camp in time to help me. Ry and Map are back from Preahneth Preah. Than remains away at a labor camp. The others’ presence gives me comfort. Now I’m not so scared to hear Chea mumble deliriously in her sleep, which often wakes me up in the middle of the night.
Chea is lying on the floor, and her breathing is shallow. After her fever breaks, she’s hungry. But all we have is rice gruel with yam leaves. The smell of it makes her nauseous. Her body becomes increasingly thin. In her soft, yearning voice, she wishes for real food: steamed rice with marinated beef. Pork rice soup. Oranges. Or just warm sweetened milk to take away the bad taste in her mouth. I wish I could go back in time and bring her the kinds of food with which Mak indulged us when one of us got sick.
Ra and I sneak out to fish at the West River, flanked by a prairie, two miles from Daakpo. Ra carries mosquito netting, and I hug a metal pan. In the dark sky, the stars pulse. A sliver of the moon lights our way. The crickets chirp, the sad song of our lives. We trot on a path that snakes along new people’s huts. The cool ground deadens the sound of our footsteps.
When we arrive at the river, the shadow of the moon reflects in the water. It has been a long time since I was last here. It was when I had to bring cow droppings with the children’s brigade to the rice paddies across from the river. Then, Avy was still alive, and so was Mak.
Ra suggests that we fish along the leaning tree branches on the other side of the river. This will shield us from the eyes of the informants, she thinks. I agree, but dread crossing the decrepit makeshift bridge held up by the stark ruin of pylons sticking out of the water. Attached to the top of these pylons, I remember, are a few horizontal slabs. As always, Ra hurries me along, just as she did when we sneaked out to ask Pok for food at Zone 3. I crawl on the bridge behind her. Now I’m not worried about the informants, but about falling into the dark sheet of the river.
Our hands and feet become our eyes. After we cross the bridge, we feel our way into the river. The water is cold. We fish along the bank beside the leaning tree branches. Since the water is shallower near the bank, Ra holds one end of the net toward the center of the river and I fish near the bank. The water comes up to my chest.
Slowly we wade in, with both hands stretching the mosquito net open. The pan floats in front of the net, guided by the arching top of it. Our plan is to scoop the net up beneath the branches. The fish are usually there during the day when it’s hot. Under her breath, Ra whispers urgently to me to hand over the pan. After pushing the pan to Ra, I reach out to touch the dark shadow in the center of the net, wondering what we’ve caught.
“Prawns, lots of prawns!” Ra’s excited.
The thought of prawns lifts up my spirit. I can’t wait until we finish fishing. Hungry, Ra and I eat some. I grab a few from the pan and shove them in my mouth. They struggle, their tails flick against my tongue. Some are the size of my little finger. Others are bigger.
We hurry back to the hut. As Ra and I walk through the village, the night is quiet. It seems as if we are the only two waking souls. When we arrive at the hut, we try to be quiet. As we are about to place the pan of prawns and the net on the alcove, Chea whispers sternly, “I’ve been worried to death. What took you so long? I can’t sleep. I kept thinking the chhlops had killed you, that my younger sisters died because of me.” Chea talks fast, her voice growing stronger.
“But Chea, there were lots of prawns,” Ra whispers excitedly. “Not knowing when we can fish again, I thought we should fish a lot now. Here, feel the prawns. They almost fill the pan!” Ra pushes the pan toward Chea. “Lots of prawns, hah? Athy and I kept eating while we fished. They’re sweet.”
“Oh my, still alive!” Chea exclaims. Ry echoes her excitement. Their hands are busy shoving the prawns into their mouths.
In this time of hunger and secrecy, we eat in the dark quietly. Map wakes up and joins us. Together we eat the live prawns, reaching for the pan frequently; it’s just like eating steamed peanuts in a movie theater. In my mind, I can see Mak’s contented, relieved face as she places the prawns in her mouth. I wish she could be with us.
The luxury of being with my family is short-lived. After two more trips to the river to get prawns, Angka reclaims me—it puts me back in a children’s brigade located a village away from Daakpo. I stay in a wooden house, a single open room built on stilts with a ladderlike stair, along with fifty other children. Our job is to clear thickets and shrubs in the woods, preparation for the cultivation of yam and yucca root. Despite how hard it is to be separated from my family again, I try to find something positive in this change. I find a little comfort in knowing that Thore Meta, who was lenient and understanding when I worked as a scarecrow, is my brigade leader.
It has been two weeks since I last saw Chea. Working from dawn to dusk exhausts me, leaving me little energy to think of her. But when I do, I miss her so much. Knowing how ill she was when I left, I’m afraid, so afraid, that I’ll lose her like I lost Pa, Mak, Avy, and Vin. Despite the prawns, her fever worsened. Her body temperature continued to rise, and she became more and more delirious. Each day she was slipping away. She needs proper medical care and not simply food. I don’t know how we can save her. I think of Pa and his medicine desk, the magic that can cure Chea. I want to take her back in time so Pa can heal her.
Tonight something is nagging at me. Lying on the floor, I’m wide awake as a voice inside me urges me to go see Chea. The yearning grows stronger, and I sob. Something inside is eating me up. I wail.
“Which comrade is crying?” Thore Meta’s voice inquires, her footsteps coming up the stairs.
I get up and sit at the corner of the house, looking at Thore Meta’s silhouette.
“Why are you crying, Comrade Thy?” she asks, her voice stern.
“My older sister is very sick. I want to see her. I want to see her before she dies.” I break down.
“Go. Go see your sister, then come back. If anyone asks, tell them I let you go,” Thore Meta says, her silhouette disappearing into the sheet of darkness.
When I near the hut, a fire is burning in the cooking hole. Yet there’s nothing cooking, and the yellow-orange tongues lick the dark space. When I get to the door of the hut, I brace myself.
“Don’t let bang sin—” My arrival interrupts Chea’s faint voice.
“Chea, Athy’s here!” Ry announces. Her head turns, and so do Ra’s and Map’s.
Everyone moves over, making room for me to see Chea. A thin, shriveled body lying on the slabs of the floor. Her breathing is shallow. As I move closer to her, her eyes, deep, sunken, shock me.
“Chea, I’m here,” I say softly, wanting her to open her eyes. Suddenly they roll slowly behind the eyelids.
“Athy,” Chea whispers. “If bang has done anything wrong that hurt you, please forgive bang, p’yoon srey. I’m sorry. Please don’t let bang sin.” Chea chokes, her body convulsing.
“No, Chea. You’ve—you’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve never done wrong….” I sniff, trying to fight b
ack tears and the pain inside my chest.
“P’yoon, all of you, forgive bang for the things I’ve done wrong. Please don’t let bang sin….” Her eyes close again.
“You have not sinned, Chea,” Ra says, her voice tender.
Ry sniffs, her hand reaching out to Chea. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“When I die, bury me under the tree in front of our hut. I want to look after all of you. Mak, Pa yurk [Our mother and father] died, and there is nobody to take care of you. I want to watch over you. Ra, don’t forget, p’yoon.”
The next day in the woods, I think of nothing but Chea. Her shriveled body. Her pleas for forgiveness. As I stare into space, my hands clear tall grass and bushes. I’m oblivious to the other children working beside me.
“Comrades, it’s time for lunch,” a man says. It is the drawl of the boys’ brigade leader.
The children in my brigade hurry past me to get their rations. But today getting food is a tedious task for me. As I sit under some shade, my hands balancing a plate of dark leafy soup, I hear the voice of the boys’ brigade leader inquire, “Does that comrade over there ever smile when she gets yam or rice?”
“I’ve never seen her smile,” a woman says. “She always looks sad. Frowns.”
Suddenly Chea’s vivid words force their way into my mind again, overshadowing what is here and now. She said, “Come to see bang again, Athy. Tomorrow, don’t forget.” No, I won’t forget, I whisper to myself, as if wanting Chea to hear me.
As soon as my brigade returns to the commune house, Thore Meta grants me permission to see Chea as if she already knew I would ask her for it. She says, “Go, then come back.” Her voice is concerned.
When Broken Glass Floats: Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge Page 22
