First They Killed My Father_ A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers - Loung Ung [91]
When finally I see their figures in the distance, I cannot believe my eyes! I squint to make sure it really is them. Opening my eyes again I grab Chou’s hand and whisper quietly to her, “It is them. It is the palm tree boy and his dad. The same people who came to my soldier training camp to collect palm sap.” Chou nods and warns me to be quiet.
Though appearing calm on the outside, inside I am spinning faster and faster. “How can this be?” I think to myself. “That in this crowd of people I actually know them?” The palm tree boy and his father break into big smiles when they recognize me. They seem actually happy about it. “This must be fate, a good omen! Maybe things will be all right after all!” I am barely able to contain my happiness.
“This is no coincidence,” the man exclaims. “I know this little girl.” He laughs and musses my hair. My face beams with joy at the touch of his hand.
“I am Kim and she is Chou, and this is Loung.” Kim introduces us.
“You want to come and live with us?” the palm boy’s father asks.
We nod.
“All right, let’s go home.” I look up at him and he smiles.
“Here, give me your bundle,” he says, taking it out of my hand. My eyes shine at him and my heart floats to the clouds. “Father!” My mind whispers happily. Chou and Kim thank our neighbors as we leave with our new family.
“I have a big family already,” the father says. “I have three little girls who are one, three, and four. And my oldest, Paof, is fourteen. My wife needs help looking after the kids. My mother is old and also needs help. You girls will help care for them, cook, collect wood, and tend the garden while Kim will go out fishing and hunting with me.” His voice is so matter-of-fact now when it was welcoming and happy a few minutes before. The realization of our work arrangement sends chills down my spine. He is not Pa. I have to stop dreaming about our family and settle for being a part of a family of convenience.
As we approach the house, the rest of the family comes out to greet us, not with smiles but with cold stares. “Small, but I guess strong enough to help us out around the house,” the mother says to the father. My face flushes with anger, but I contain myself. She motions for us to follow her inside the hut. Their hut is bigger than many we have seen yet built like all the others. “My family lives on this side so you three sleep in that corner over there.” She points to the far corner of the hut. “Drop your things there.”
One afternoon, after a day in the forest gathering firewood, Chou and I come home to find Kim in the corner of the hut watching the mother go through our things. I climb the steps and sit by him, holding in my anger. “I cannot believe this!” the mother squeals, her fingers picking up Ma’s shirt. It was Ma’s favorite silk shirt. She wore it many times in Phnom Penh. When the soldiers burned our clothes, Ma was wearing this shirt underneath a plain black shirt and was able to hide it from them. She risked everything just to keep it. As if she knew of her impending fate, Ma gave Kim the backpack with her jewelry sown in the straps, as well as her favorite shirt, on his last visit to her.
“It is so soft!” the mother exclaims happily and slips the shirt over her head. It falls smoothly over her body, the blue silk shining beautifully in the sun. Kim’s jaw bulges as he grits his teeth and Chou looks elsewhere; our anger rises, but we say nothing. Finally sensing our glares, she takes the shirt off and throws it back in the bag. “I don’t like it anyway. It’s ugly now that I really look at it. How can anyone wear this color?” she says and walks away. Kim takes the shirt out and gently folds it neatly before putting